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POEMS 


Henry    Lynden    Flash, 


NEW   YORK: 
KuDD  &  Carleton,  130  Grand  Street. 

M  DCCC  LX. 


Oi^^^^ 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 

RUDD   &   CARLETON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New- York. 


J  .      H  .     T  O  B  I  T  T  , 
COMBINATION-TYPE     PRINTER, 

1  Franklin  Square,  JV.  Y. 


TO     MY     MOTHER 


M191837 


Contents. 


PAOB 

Lifting  the  Veil ...    9 

The  Shadows  in  the  Valley 19 

What  Happened 22 

The  King's  Whim 25 

Japan  Lilies 28 

The  Gospel  of  Beauty 29 

Haunted 32 

S  ailed 34 

The  Maid  I  Love 36 

A  Wreath  that's  worth  the  Wearing 39 

Come,  fill  the  Goblet 42 

What  the  Cricket  Sang ' 44 

My  Friend 46 

What  She  Brought  Me 49 

Sonnet 51 

The  Legion  of  Honor 52 

Behind  the  Pall 65 

A  Fact .* 58 

Compensation 60 

The  Duke  of  the  Old  Regune 61 

Salvation 65 

The  Peri  and  the  Flowers 67 

Curst  and  Blest 72 

The  Scoffers 75 

Sonnet— Adele 81 


(vii) 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

In  the  Grove 82 

Despair 85 

Maud  and  I 88 

Epistle  to  A.  P.  S 91 

Wine 97 

In  the  Moonlight 100 

Love's  Artifice 102 

Who  can  Tell? 104 

To 106 

Epistle  to  T.  H.  W.... 108 

Love  and  Wrong 113 

The  Conqueror 114 

O  Lover  !   O  Poet !   Sing  me  a  Song 116 

Wedded 117 

The  Gallant  Fifty-one 119 

Song 122 

Weary 123 

Crazed 125 

Waiting 127 

The  Picture 129 

After  Dinner 131 

My  Birthday '. 134 

Three  Young  Men 138 

Westward,  ho  ! 140 

Love 143 

Sonnet 146 

Our  Parting 146 

On  a  Tress  of  Hair 148 

Damned .«. 151 

To  Melanie 154 

The  Lady  of  the  Land 155 

A  True  Lover 158 

Lost  and  Won 160 

The  Fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 162 

To  Mary 164 

Florence  de  Beverlie 166 


POEMS. 

0 

LIFTING  THE   VEIL. 

I. 

I  AM  lying  in  my  shroud, 
Dead! 
So  they  say ; 
And  they  pray 

Round  my  bed. 
And  they  weep  and  wail  aloud. 
For  they  little  think  that  I, 
All  stiffened  as  I  lie. 
Have  a  power  and  a  vision 
That  I  never  knew  before. 
Though  my  limbs  are  cold  and  rigid. 

And  my  heart  will  beat  no  more. 
Yet  my  spirit  sees  a  demon 
That  it  never  saw  before, 


10  LIFTmG  THE   VEIL. 

Do  you  see  that  woman  sitting 
IS'ear  my  bed, 

Watching  through  the  night 
By  the  dead  ? 

The  taper's  misty  light 
Shows  a  forehead  broad  and  fair, 
Partly  shadowed  by  the  darkness 
Of  her  cloudy  mass  of  hair. 
She  looks  pure,  and  sweet,  and  holy, 
As  the  moon  up  in  the  sky. 
But  her  heart  is  cold  as  marble. 
And  her  looks  are  all  a  lie  ; 
And  this  woman'that  I  worshipped 
Is  an  animated  lie. 


I  died  but  yesternight ! 
But  my  spirit  in  its  flight. 
Has  seen  the  varied  wonders 
Of  the  sky  and  of  the  air. 
It  has  been  among  the  stars, 
In  Venus  and  in  Mars, 
And  has  seen  the  angels  fair 


LIFTING   THE    VEIL.  11 

That  are  singing  in  their  light ; 
But  the  woman  that  I  cherished, 
By  whose  treachery  I  perished. 
With  the  fairest  of  their  numbers 
Could  compare. 

O  !  'tis  well  the  dead  are  palsied — 
Else  my  heart, 

Inflated  with  the  flood 

Of  my  injured  body's  blood, 
Would  break  apart. 
For  she  twined  her  arms  around  me, 

And  she  pressed  her  lips  to  mine. 
And  she  wished  that  I  should  pledge  her 

In  a  golden  cup  of  wine — 
And  she  placed  a  deadly  poison 

In  this  very  cup  of  wine. 


And,  to  think  my  latest  breath, 
Ere  it  passed  away  with  Death, 
Breathed  a  blessing  on  her  head  ! 
I  kissed  her  lying  lips, 


12  LIFTING    THE   VEIL. 

And  passed  into  eclipse. 
For  tlie  shadow  of  the  world 
Hides  my  spirit  from  her  sight. 

But  the  dead, 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
Though  they  lie  in  shrouds  of  white, 
Can  in  spirit-form  depart. 
And  in  ghostly  garb  re-visit 
Tliose  on  earth  they  cherished  well ; 
And  pry  with  phantom  eyes 
Into  the  mysteries  * 

That  are  hidden  in  the  heart — 
That  doth  make  a  burning  hell 
Of  the  wicked  human  heart — 
And  though  her  face  is  mild  and  sweet, 
I  can  see  the  scorching  heat 
That  is  withering  up  her  heart. 

Oh  !  beware  the  injured  dead, 
For  their  power  has  not  fled  \ 
They  can  break  into  the  heart. 
And  with  shadowy  fingers  part 
The  strands,  on  which  are  strung 


LIFTING   THE    VEIL.  13 

Like  beads,  your  hopes  and  fears  : 
And  the  hopes  thej  trample  down. 
But  the  fears  they  leave,  to  drown 
Your  hated  life  in  tears. 
And  when,  in  Death's  deep  slumber, 
Ton  go  to  join  their  number, 
Your  frighted  ghost  will  shrink 
With  horror  at  their  frown  ; 
And,  with  a  piercing  yell. 
Into  the  depths  of  hell, 
In  darkness  and  despair, 
You  will  fall  forever  down. 


II. 

The  hated  dream  is  past — 
I  have  risen  from  the  earth — 
I  am  floating  in  the  skies, 
"Where  the  constellations  rise, 
And  my  spirit  upward  flies, 


14  LIFTING   THE    VEIL. 

To  meet  its  God  at  last. 
I  have  had  my  proper  birth — 
I  have  seen  the  dawn  of  day — 
I  have  broken  from  the  clay, 
That  held  me  down  so  fast ; 
And  the  echoing  skies  shall  ring, 
With  the  praises  I  shall  sing 

Of  the  everlasting  God, 
Who  has  raised  me  from  the  sod, 
Which  in  sorrow  I  have  trod 

Many  years ; 
With  my  breath  a  host  of  sighs. 
And  my  weary  feet  unshod. 
And  my  heavy-burdened  eyes, 
Like  the  cloud  of  autumn  skies, 

Full  of  tears. 


Little  did  she  think, 

As  she  gave  the  poisoned  wine, 

And  begged  that  I  would  drink 

A  brimming  cup  to  her, 

That  the  draught  would  prove  divine, 


LIFTING   THE   VEIL.  15 

And  waft  my  soul  above, 

A  winged  worshipper 

At  tlie  throne  of  Grace  and  Love. 

Yes :  little  did  she  think. 

The  wine  I  then  did  drink. 

Would  raise  me  to  a  golden  throne 

Above  the  whirling  earth  ; 

Where  not  a  sigh  or  groan. 

Or  an  agonizing  moan, 

Could  mingle  with  the  tone 

Of  an  everlasting  mirth. 


As  she  sat  beside  my  bed. 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 
On  which  there  was  no  trace 
That  told  of  earthly  life  ; 
She  thought  that  1  was  dead, 
And  softly  bowed  her  head 
Like  a  true  and  loving  wife ; 
Little  thinking  I  could  see 
Through  the  dark  conspiracy, 
That  had  robbed  me  of  my  breath. 


16  LIFTING   THE   VEIL. 

But  instead 
Of  being  cold  and  dead, 
I  am  radiant  with  a  Life 
That  bids  defiance  unto  Death  ; 
That  is  free  from  care  and  strife, 
Or  the  sorrows  that  are  rife 
Upon  the  reeling  earth — 
I  am  brilliant  as  the  Sun, 
I  have  seen  the  Holy  One — 
I  have  had  a  heavenly  birth. 

Death  in  Life,  is  what  I  felt 

Upon  the  Earth, 
When  at  Passion's  shrine  I  knelt 
In  frenzy  wild,  and  dealt 
Sudden  stabs  upon  my  soul 
That  made  the  fiends  rejoice. 
And  laugh  with  horrid  mirth 
That  they  held  me  in  control : 

But  a  voice 
Whispered  softly  in  my  ear, 
That  ere  the  new-sown  year 
Should  blossom  into  Springy 


LIFTING  THE  VEIL. 

1  should  be  among  the  dead, 
And  chapel-bells  would  ring 
For  a  spirit  that  had  fled. 
Then  I  turned  my  thoughts  above, 
To  the  fountain-head  of  Love, 
And  drew  a  purer  breath— 
And  I  saw  a  silver  light 
That  illumed  my  moral  night, 
And  made  letters  clear  and  bright, 
That  read  unto  my  sight, 

Life  in  Death, 
Thus  the  revelation  came — 
My  heart  was  purified, 
And  I  blessed  His  holy  name 

That  I  died. 

I  know  that  Death  is  Life 

To  the  just ; 
I  am  free  from  earthly  strife, 
1  have  cast  away  the  dust. 
There  is  glory  on  my  brow, 
And  I  am  floating  now 
In  a  land  that  knows  no  night, 
In  an  ether  of  delight ; 


17 


18  LIFTING  THE  VEIL. 

I  was  dead  upon  the  Earlli, 
I  have  had  my  second  birth 
In  this  radiant  realm  above. 
I  am  purified  for  aye — 
My  soul  can  never  die — 
It  has  an  immortality 

Of  blended  life  and  love. 


THE  SHADOWS  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

There's  a  mossy,  shady  valley. 

Where  the  waters  wind  and  flow. 
And  the  daisies  sleep  in  winter, 

'Neath  a  coverlid  of  snow  ; 
And  violets,  blue-eyed  violets. 

Bloom  in  beauty  in  the  spring, 
And  the  sunbeams  kiss  the  wavelets. 

Till  they  seem  to  laugh  and  sing. 

But  in  autumn,  when  the  sunlight 

Crowns  the  cedar-covered  hill, 
Shadows  darken  in  the  valley, 

Shadows  ominous  and  still ; 
And  the  yellow  leaves,  like  banners 

Of  an  Elfin-host,  that's  fled. 
Tinged  with  gold  and  royal  purple, 

Flutter  sadly  overhead. 


20  THE  BHADOWS  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

And  those  shadows,  gloomy  shadows, 

Like  dim  phantoms  on  the  ground, 
Stretch  their  dreamy  lengths  forever 

On  a  daisy- covered  mound. 
And  I  loved  her,  yes,  I  loved  her. 

But  the  angels  loved  her,  too. 
So  she's  sleeping  in  the  valley, 

'Neath  the  sky  so  bright  and  blue. 


And  no  slab  of  pallid  marble 

Eears  its  white  and  ghastly  head, 
Telling  wanderers  in  the  valley 

Of  the  virtues  of  the  dead  ; 
But  a  lily  is  her  tombstone. 

And  a  dew-drop,  pure  and  bright, 
Is  the  epitaph  an  angel  wrote. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  night. 


And  I'm  mournful,  very  mournful, 
For  my  soul  doth  ever  crave 

For  the  fading  of  the  shadows 
From  that  little  woodland  grave  ; 


THE  SHADOWS  IN  THE  VALLEY.  21 

For  the  memory  of  the  loved  one. 
From  my  soul  will  never  part ; 

And  those  shadows  in  the  valley. 
Dim  the  sunshine  of  my  heart. 


WHAT  HAPPENED. 

My  love  looked  from  the  lattice — 
The  lattice  wreathed  with  green — 

And  a  fairer  face  in  a  lovelier  frame, 
I  trow  was  never  seen. 

My  love  looked  from  the  lattice. 

To  read  the  stars  in  the  skies  ; 
But  I  read  my  fate  by  the  softer  light 

That  beamed  from  her  azure  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  fathom  their  meaning,"  she  said, 

"  Or  how  they  affect  my  life  ; 
Or  whether  they  tell  of  a  peaceful  lot, 

Or  betoken  care  and  strife." 

"  O  never  heed  the  stars,"  I  said, 

"  They  have  nought  to  do  witli  thee ; 


WHAT.  HAPPENED.  23 

O  turn  your  eyes  away  from  the  skies, 
.  To  sliine  forever  on  me." 

A  sudden  start — a  tender  glance — 

And  she  gazed  through  the  lattice  bars, 

And  softly  said,  "  My  fate  is  there  ! 
You  must  ask  the  shining  stars." 

* 
"  O  the  starsj"  I  said,  "  are  well  enough 

To  deck  the  skies  above  ; 
But  a  star  more  fair  than  any  there 

Is  the  beautiful  star  of  love." 

But  she  shook  her  curls,  so  I  cried  to  the  stars, 
"  Shall  this  maid  to  me  be  given  ?" 

O  Love !  O  flame  !  an  answer  came, 
And  a  star  shot  down  from  heaven. 

Then  a  snowy  hand  was  laid  in  mine. 

And  blossoms  were  plucked  from  the  boughs — 
There  was  ringing  of  bells  and  giving  of  alms, 

And  an  interchange  of  vows. 


24  WHAT    HAPPENED. 

A  year  has  passed  and  the  stars  still  shine, 

But  I  swear,  as  I  look  above. 
That  a  star  more  fair  than  any  there, 

Is  the  beautiful  star  of  love. 


THE  KING'S  WHIM. 

"  What  ho,  within  !  what  ho,  I  say !  bring  forth 

the  richest  wine 
That  ever  throbbed  tumultuonsly  the  pulses  of  the 

vine; 
And  let  the  goblets  all  be  gold,  and  crusted  thick 

with  gems, 
That  these,  my  guests,    may  take  the  cups  for 

kingly  diadems. 

"  For  now,  my  lords,  I  parcel  out  my  royalty  t6 

you; 
And  each  that  sits  around  this  board  shall  be  a 

monarch,  too ; 
So,  when  you  drink  your  fill  of  wine,  lay  not  the 

goblets  down. 
But  place  them  boldly  on  your  heads,  and  wear  a 

kingly  crown ! 


"  And  if  tliere  lurk  among  us  all  a  foe  that  I 
should  dread, 

Tlie  crown  will  grow  rebellious,  sirs,  and  topple 
from  his  head : 

Be  wary  then,  O  gentlemen  ! — ^Now  fill  your  gob- 
lets high, 

And  let  us  drink  to  Youth  and  Love— twin  sisters 
of  the  sky!" 


They  quaifed  the  sunny  floods  of  wine,  and  then 

stood  bravely  up. 
And  crowned  themselves  so  merrily,  each  with 

his  jewelled  cup ; 
A  single  moment  thus  they  stood,  when,  with  a 

ringing  sound. 
The  goblet  that  the  monarch  wore,  fell  glittering 

to  the  ground. 

"  'Tis  true,  'tis  true,"  the  King  cried  out,  "  I  am 

the  traitor  here — 
Myself  the  only  living  thing  that  I  have  cause  to 

fear; 


THE  king's  whim.  27 

Pour  out  upon  the  thirsty  sod  this  soul-destroying 

wine, 
I've  been  its  victim  long  enough,  and  now  it  shall 

be  mine  ! 

And  you,  my  noble  gentlemen,  betake  you  to  your 

rest, 
For  ere  to-morrow's  sun  shall  sink,  with  splendor 

in  the  west, 
I'll  lead  ye  forth  with  stainless  plume,  to  revel  in 

the  fight. 
Where  joy  be  with  the  bravest  heart,  and  God  be 

with  the  right !" 


JAPAN  LILIES. 

Have  you  seen  the  Japan  Lilies, 

In  all  their  fire  and  bloom, 
With  their  gorgeous  crimson  leaves, 
Flushed  with  the  warmth  of  the  South, 

And  their  fainting  sweet  perfume  ? 

The  leaves  are  redder  than  blood, 
And  the  white,  on  the  slender  slips, 

Is  like  a  tropic  moonbeam 

Sliding  its  thread  of  silver 
Across  my  true  love's  lips. 

The  darling  wears  one  of  these  lilies — ■ 
It  burns  on  the  snow  of  her  breast : 
And  when  she  looks  down,  the  light  of  her  eyes 
Strikes  through  the  red,  making  sunset  dyes 
Glow  on  her  bosom  likes  eastern  skies 
When  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  West. 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  BEAUTY. 

Beauty  dwelleth  in  the  humblest  thing ! 

The  flower  blooming  in  some  lonely  nook, 
"Will  preach  a  tranquil  sermon  to  the  mind ; 

And  in  the  babbling  of  the  summer  brook, 
"When  baby-waves  grow  garrulous  as  age. 

Are  heard  dim  stories  of  the  long  ago, 
When  fairies  were  not  dead,  and  elfin  hosts 

Stole  out  to  dance  upon  the  moon-lit  snow  ! 

Beauty  is  everywhere  !     Those  who  see  it  not 
Have  clouded  eyes,  hearts  fit  for  mould — 

The  warmth  of  beauty  permeates  the  earth. 
And  only  sin  is  drear,  and  bleak,  and  cold ; 

Men  shut  their  eyes,  and  cry  alou'^ 


30  THE  GOSPEL  OF  BEAUTY. 

"  'Tis  dark  as  Erebus ;  there  is  no  light !" 
And  so  go  groping,  mole-like,  through  the  earth. 
Shrouded  in  gloom  where  everything  is  bright. 


There  are  two    ministries  : — ^The  eyes  can  see 

Things  palpable,  and  not  to  be  denied  : 
The  spirit  sight  streams  on  through  sun-lit  space, 

And  floweth  heavenward  in  an  endless  tide  ! 
The  ojie  can  see  the  shivering  streams  of  light 

The  trembling  moonshine  on  some  ruin  throws, 
The  flush  of  rose  leaves  and  the  heart  of  buds  ; 

The  other  sees  the  perfume  of  the  rose. 


The  air  is  populous  with  beauty ! 

'Twixt  the  trees  and  clouds,  the  earth  and  sky. 
Float  souls  of  colors,  shadows  of  sunbeams, 

Spirits  of  dew-drops,  that  can  never  die — 
Melodies  ecstatic,  to  which  the  notes 

Of  shepherds,  heard  in  fabled  Arcady, 
Are  grating  discords  ;  airs  divine, 

Echoing  softly  through  eternity  ! 


THE  GOSPEL  OF  BEAUTY.  31 

Beauty  is  wisdom  purified — 

The  sum  of  life — the  total  of  our  breath — 
The  satisfier  of  our  spirit  yearnings — 

Kevealing  God  without  the  aid  of  death  ; 
For  those  who  pierce  the  shadowy  mists  of  earth, 

And  forms  of  beauty  in  the  ether  see, 
Have  drunk  in  knowled2:e  of  immortal  life — 

Beauty  is  heaven's  epitome. 


HAUNTED. 

Heart-cueses  on  that  shadow  there, 

That  glides  upon  my  sight ; 
Why  does  it  come  with  its  streaming  hair. 
And  its  eyes  still  bright,  with  a  gi^eat  despair, 

Blasting  the  breath  of  night  ? 

It  creeps  about  like  a  hideous  thing 

From  the  ghastly  blue  of  hell, 
And  it  laughs  till  all  the  chambers  ring, 
And  I  turn  pale  as  a  coward  king, 

When  he  hears  his  own  death  knell. 


I  fear  you  not,  though  your  eyes  are  bright, 
What  care  I  for  the  dead  ? 


HAUNTED.  33 

Though  I  entered  your  room  in  the  hush  of 

night, 
And  stabbed  your  breast  till  the  foamy  white 
Of  your  bosom  turned  to  red. 

I  drank  the  blood  of  your  paramour 
The  night  that  I  shed  your  own ; 
You  kissed  the  lips  of  a  wretched  boor — 
You,  with  the  charms  of  a  Pompadour, 
And  the  grace  to  sit  a  throne ! 

Back — back !  and  hide  that  horrid  gash, 

Tliat  gapes  on  your  bosom's  white ; 
The  gleam  of  your  eyes  is  a  crimson  flash — 
The  thunder  roars,  I  fall  in  the  crash. 
And  die  in  your  hated  sight. 


SAILED. 

Cease  wringing  of  your  helpless  hands. 
And  dry  your  streaming  eyes — 

Obedient  to  the  Lord's  commands, 
He  has  sailed  for  Paradise. 

Sailed  in  a  boat  of  the  sunset  beams 

Over  the  blue  above, 
Bound  for  the  land  of  living  streams 

In  the  continent  of  Love. 

Left  this  port  of  sighs  and  tears, 

To  return  O  !  nevermore — 
Left  a  host  of  earthly  fears. 

To  laugh  on  the  heavenly  shore. 

Left  a  grief  no  tongue  can  tell 
In  a  doting  father's  breast — 

Left  the  friends  that  loved  him  well, 
For  Him  that  loved  him  best. 


SAILED.  35 


Sailed  with  a  smile  on  his  guileless  lips, 
Away  from  this  earthly  sod — 

Sailed  away  from  the  world's  eclipse 
To  live  in  the  light  of  God. 


THE  MAID  I  LOVE. 

The  maid  I  love  has  violet  eyes. 

And  rose-leaf  lips  of  red. 
She  wears  the  moonshine  round  her  neck, 

The  sunshine  round  her  head ; 
And  she  is  rich  in  every  grace, 

And  poor  in  every  guile. 
And  crowned  kings  might  envy  me 

The  splendor  of  her  smile. 


She  walks  the  earth  with  such  a  grace. 

The  lilies  turn  to  look, 
And  waves  rise  up  to  catch  a  glance, 

Aud  stir  the  ^uiet  brook  ; 


THE   MAID   I   LOVE.  37 


Nor  ever  will  they  rest  again, 
But  chatter  as  they  flow, 

And  babble  of  her  crimson  lips. 
And  of  her  breast  of  snow. 


And  e'en  the  leaves  upon  the  trees 

Are  whispering  tales  of  her. 
And  tattle  till  they  grow  so  warm, 

That,  in  the  general  stir. 
They  twist  them  from  the  mother-branch, 

And  through  the  air  they  fly. 
Till,  fainting  with  the  love  they  feel. 

They  flutter  down  and  die. 


And  what  is  stranger  still  than  all 

The  wonders  of  her  grace, 
Her  mind's  the  only  thing  to  match 

The  glories  of  her  face. 
O  !  she  is  Nature's  paragon — 

All  innocent  of  art ; 
And  she  has  promised  me  her  hand, 

And  given  me  her  heart. 


38  THE   MAID   I   LOVE. 

And  when  the  spring  again  shall  flush 

Our  glorious  southern  bowers, 
My  love  will  wear  a  bridal  veil, 

A  wreath  of  orange  flowers  ; 
And  so  I  care  not  if  the  sun 

Should  founder  in  the  sea, 
For,  O  !  the  Heaven  of  her  love 

Is  light  enough  for  me. 


A  WKEATH  THAT'S  WORTH  THE  WEARING. 

She  twined  the  laurel  in  my  hair. 

And  said,  "  O,  Poet !  win  renown, 
Till  earth  shall  recognize  the  claim 
And  legalize  the  crown." 

"  Men's  praise  is  little  worth,"  I  said, 

"  There  is  no  grandeur  in  their  nod — 
Did  they  not  twine  a  crown  of  thorns 
And  crucify  their  God  ?" 

"  Ah  I  true,  indeed,"  she  sighing  said, 
"  Yet  still  I  long  to  see  you,  when. 
Crowned  with  the  Poet's  wreath,  you  stand 
The  cynosure  of  men." 


40       A   WEEATH   that's   WOETH   THE   WEABING. 

"  But  few,"  1  said,  "  who  sing  the  cause 

Of  Eight  against  the  giant  Wrong, 
Can  hope  to  gain  the  laurel-wreath 
To  compensate  the  song. 

"  For  those  who  best  deserve  the  prize 

Are  so  far  forward  of  their  time. 
That  years  roll  by  before  men  hear 
The  echo  of  their  rhyme. 

"  And  when  at  length  it  strikes  their  ears, 

They  forward  march  with  doubtful  tread, 

And  reach  the  point  whence  came  the  strains, 

To  find  the  poet  dead. 

"  So  tell  me  not  of  earthly  wreaths. 

To  deck  so  low  a  head  as  mine, 
"While  they  died  crownless  who  have  sung 
In  strains  almost  divine. 

"No  !  bid  me  rather  seek  His  praise, 
Who  doth  sustain  me  in  the  strife. 
Till  death  shall  crown  me  with  the  leaves 
Plucked  from  the  Tree  of  Life. 


A   WREATH   that's    WORTH   THE   AVEARING.      41 

"  And  then  the  wreath  that  decks  my  brow, 

No  power  of  earth  can  trample  down  ; 
For  God  will  recognize  the  claim. 
Eternalize  the  crown." 


COME  FILL  THE  GOBLET. 

Come  fill  the  goblet  to  the  brim. 

And  let  my  soul  go  Maying, 
In  ideal-realms  and  fairy-fields, 

Where  fiowers  repay  the  staying. 
The  world  is  old,  and  wan,  and  cold, 

The  months  are  all  December, 
And  what  was  once  the  fire  of  love 

Is  now  a  dying  ember  ; 
The  Fates,  instead  of  whispering  "  Hope," 
But  breathe  the  curse  "  Eemember." 
So  fill  the  goblet  to  the  brim, 
And  let  my  soul  go  Maying, 
In  ideal-realms  and  fairy-fields 

Where  flowers  repay  the  staying  ; 
Where  Ariadne  bows  her  head. 
And  weeps  at  my  delaying, 


COME    FILL   THE   GOBLET.  43 

And  he  who  quaffs  the  generous  blood 

Of  the  grape  so  rich  and  purple, 
May  snap  his  fingers  at  the  Fates, 
And  bind  his  brow  with  myrtle. 
But  he  who  scorns  the  jolly  god, 
Old  Bacchus,  full  and  reeling. 
May  drink  the  tears,  instead  of  wine, 

Adown  his  pale  face  stealing ; 
For  in  the  varying  "  Game  of  Life," 
Grim  Pluto  does  the  dealing. 

So  fill  the  goblet  to  the  brim. 

And  let  my  soul  go  Maying, 
In  ideal-realms  and  fairy-fields 

Where  flowers  repay  the  staying ; 
Where  Ariadne  bows  her  head. 
And  weeps  at  my  delaying. 


WHAT  THE  CRICKET  SANG. 

The  little  cricket  left  the  liearth 

And  sat  upon  my  knee. 
And  sang  a  sweet  and  merry  song 
Of  how  my  love  loved  me — 

"  She  loves  you  !  she  loves  you !" 
The  little  cricket  sang  ; 
And  through  my  fire-lighted  room 
The  merry  music  rang — 

She  loves  you !  she  loves  you  ! 

God  bless  you,  little  cricket, 

For  sitting  on  my  knee. 
And  singing  such  a  dainty  song 
Of  how  my  love  loves  me — 

"  She  loves  you  !  she  loves  you!" 
Again  the  cricket  sang  ; 
And  in  my  heart  the  marriage  bells 
In  happy  cadence  rang — 

She  loves  you !  she  loves  you  ! 


WHAT   THE   CRICKET   SANG.  45 

The  winter  went — the  summer  came — 

The  buds  were  on  the  lea. 
And  my  love  was  decked  with  orange  flowers. 
But  not,  alas  !  for  me — 

"  She  loves  you !  she  loves  you  !" 
Was  rang  and  sang  with  glee  ; 
But  the  birds  that  sang  and  the  bells 
that  rang, 
Neither  rang  nor  sang  for  me — 
She  loves  you !  she  loves  you ! 

The  summer's  gone — the  winter's  here — 

The  cricket's  on  my  knee ; 
But  he  sings  no  more,  as  he  sang  before. 
Of  how  my  love  loves  me — 

"  She  loves  you  !.  she  loves  you !" 
He  sings  no  more  in  glee  ; 
Yet  still  I  bless  the  little  cricket. 
For  singing  once  to  me — 

She  loves  you  !  she  loves  you  ! 


MY  FRIEND. 


"  His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stands, 
And  faith  unfaithful  keeps  him  falsely  true." 

Tennyson. 


My  friend  is  a  friend  that  is  rarely  seen — - 

A  man  with  a  dangerous  depth  of  heart — 
For  if  ever  a  love  nestles  down  to  the  bottom. 

Its  wings  are  clipped,  it  can  never  depart. 
With  a  regal  mind  and  a  regal  soul. 

My  friend,  for  years,  has  not  been  strong  : 
Loving  where  love  is  a  thing  to  be  hid, 

Loving  where  love  is  a  grievous  wrong. 


Eight  years  back  he  came  from  college, 
Hurried  to  me  though  the  night  was  late  : 

Said  he  had  loved  for  five  bright  years. 
And  that  the  morrow  would  settle  his  fate  : 


MY    FKIKND.  47 

And  T,  not  doubting  my  friend  wonld  win — 
What  girl  could  refuse  such  a  man  as  he  ? — 

Gave  him  my  hand  with  my  heart  in  the  palm. 
And  begged  for  a  seat  at  his  table  for  me. 


Drearily,  drearily,  rained  the  rain, 

As  I  sat  by  the  fire  reading  my  book — 
The  door  was  opened,  my  friend  came  in — 

A  dire  apocalypse  shone  in  his  look. 
Writhed  a  tortured  smile  on  his  lips — 

Bloodily  clammy,  and  touched  with  foam— 
And  all  the  horrors  of  all  the  earth 

Seemed  to  have  made  his  face  their  home. 


Married  she  was  a  week  before  ;• 

He  told  me  the  tale  and  away  he  went, 
To  bury  his  heart,  if  that  might  be. 

In  the  far  oif  lands  of  the  Orient, 
Scarce  a  year  gone,  and  back  he  was : 

I  looked  in  his  face  and  saw  the  pain 
Of  one  who  wrestles  with  great  despair. 

And  battles  with  deadly  sin  in  vain. 


48  MY   FRIEND. 

Noble  is  he  in  all  his  life, 

Save  in  the  love  he  gives  and  receives  : 
His  heart  has  clouded  his  royal  mind  ; 

That  their  loves  are  pure,  he  firmly  believes. 
For  love,  like  fire,  he  madly  says. 

Purifies  all  it  dwells  within. 
Lighting  the  darkness  of  the  shame, 

And  burning  the  stain  from  out  the  sin. 

And  so  he  prays  that  he  may  die. 

Ere  time  or  change  can  mar  his  love. 
Living  as  faithful  to  his  sin 

As  angels  do  to  the  God  above. 
Save  him,  O  Lord  !  from  his  false,  true  heart, 

Dear,  I  know,  he  is  to  Thee, 
Though  wrapped  in  impurity,  dreaming  it  pure. 

And  sinfully  virtuous,  bending  the  knee. 


WHAT  SHE  BROUGHT    ME. 

This  faded  flower  that  you  see, 

Was  given  me  a  year  ago, 
By  one  whose  little,  dainty  hand, 

Is  whiter  than  the  snow. 

Her  eyes  are  blue  as  violets. 

And  she's  a  blonde,  and  very  fair, 

And  sunset  tints  are  not  as  bright 
As  is  her  golden  hair. 

And  there  are  roses  in  her  cheeks 
That  come  and  go  like  living  things ; 

Her  voice  is  softer  than  the  brook's 
That  flows  from  hidden  springs. 

She  gave  it  me  with  downcast  eyes. 

And  rosy  flushes  of  the  cheek. 

That  told  of  tender  thoughts,  her  tongue^ 

Had  never  learned  to  speak. 
49  5 


50  WHAT    SllK   BROUGHT    ME. 

The  fitting  words  had  just  been  said, 
And  she  was  mine  as  long  as  life ; 

I  gently  laid  the  flower  aside, 
And  kissed  my  blushing  wife. 

She  took  it  up  with  earnest  look, 
And  said,  "  Oh,  prize  the  flower" — 

And  tender  tears  were  in  her  eyes- 
''  It  is  my  only  dower." 

She  brought  me  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Truth, 
She  brought  me  gentle  thoughts,  and  love — 

A  soul  as  pure  as  those  that  float 
Around  the  throne  above. 

But  earthly  thing  she  nothing  had. 
Except  this  faded  flower  you  see  ; 

And  though  'tis  worthless  in  your  eyes, 
'Tis  very  dear  to  me. 


SONNET. 


TO    ITALY. 


Oh,  Italy  !  for  thee  I  weave  my  song, 

Tliou  sunny  land  of  beauty  and  of  flowers ; 
Tho'  thou  art  groaning  'neath  the  heel  of  Wrong, 

Thy  beauty's  unimpaired — ^Thy  classic  bowers 
Are  still  as  fair,  as  when,  in  ancient  days. 

The  laurel-crowned  Petrarch  framed  his  lays 
To  love-lorn  Laura.     Palaces  and  towers 

Have  lost  no  beauty  from  the  lapse  of  Time, 

But  rather,  folded  in  historic  page. 
Have  braved  the  centuries  and  become  sublime. 

I  love  thee,  Italy,  with  a  poet's  rage  : 
And  flushed  with  memories  of  thy  sunny  clime, 

My  heart,  tumultuous,  flutters  like  a  dove. 
And  flies  to  thee,  thou  land  of  light  and  Love. 


61 


THE  LEGION  OF  HONOR. 

Why  are  we  forever  speaking 
Of  the  warriors  of  old  ? 

Men  are  fighting  all  around  us, 
Full  as  noble,  full  as  bold. 


Ever  working,  ever  striving, 

Mind  and  muscle,  heart  and  soul ; 

With  the  reins  of  Judgment  keeping 
Passions  under  full  control. 


Noble  hearts  are  beating  boldly, 

As  they  ever  did  on  earth  ; 

S wordless  heroes  are  around  us. 

Striving  ever  from  their  birth — 
52 


THE   LEGION    OF    HONOR.  53 

Tearing  down  the  old  abuses, 

Building-  up  the  purer  laws, 
Scattering  the  dust  of  ages, 

Searching  out  the  hidden  flaws. 

Acknowledging  no  "  right  divine" 
In  Kings  and  Princes  from  the  rest ; 

In  their  creed  he  is  the  noblest, 
Who  has  worked  and  striven  best. 

Decorations  do  not  tempt  them — 
Diamond  stare  they  laugli  to  scorn — 

Each  will  wear  a  "  Cross  of  Honor" 
On  the  Kesurrection  morn. 

Warriors  they  in  fields  of  wisdom —  , 

Like  the  noble  Hebrew  youth. 
Striking  down  Goliath-error 

With  the  God-bless'd  stone  of  truth. 

Marshalled  'neath  the  Eight's  broad  banner, 
Forward  rush  these  volunteers, 

Beating  olden  v/rong  away 

From  the  fast  advancing  years. 


54  THE   LEGION   OF   HONOR. 

Contemporaries  do  not  see  them, 
But  the  coming  times  will  say, 

(Speaking  of  the  slandered  Present,) 
"  There  were  heroes  in  that  day." 

Why  are  we  then  idly  lying 

On  the  roses  of  our  life, 
While  the  noble-hearted  struggle 

In  the  world-redeeming  strife  ? 

Let  us  rise  and  join  the  Legion, 
Ever  foremost  in  the  fray — 

Battling  in  the  name  of  Progress, 
For  the  nobler,  purer  day. 


BEHIND  THE  PALL 

'Tis  wondrous  strange — it  looks  as  deadj 

And  yet  I  feel  no  fear  ; 
My  body  lies  upon  the  bed, 

And  I  am  standing  here 
With  all  my  faculties  complete — 

A  perfect  man  from  the  crown  of  my  head 
To  the  very  soles  of  my  feet. 


Dead  1  dead  I  what  an  earthy  word ! 

Ah  !  now  I  see  it  all  ! 
I  was  wont  to  laugh  at  the  truths  1  heard 

Of  the  life  behind  the  pall : 

Of  the  death-in-life  and  the  life-in-death^ 

And  held  that  the  ceasing  of  the  breath 

"Was  the  final  end  of  all. 
55 


56  BEHIND   THE   PALL. 

But  I  have  fled  from  what  is  dead. 
And  will  warm  the  clay  no  more, 

That  lies  so  senseless  on  the  bed, 
Deaf  to  those  who  deplore 

The  absence  of  the  living  ray 

That  saved  the  body  from  decay, 
And  held  the  worm  in  awe. 

But  what  will  my  darling  say  to  this 
When  she  hears  I  have  passed  away. 

And  knows  the  lips  she  was  wont  to  kiss 
Are  pallid  curves  of  clay  ? 

Will  she  die  for  the  want  of  the  olden  bliss, 
Or  live  for  the  heart's  decay  ? 

My  only  wish  is  to  see  her  now — 

Great  Heaven  !  and  can  it  be  ! 
There  she  lies  with  her  curl-lit  brow. 

Dreaming  a  dream  of  me  ; 
Dreaming  a  dream  of  the  man  that  stands 

Here  by  her  side  to-night ; 
And  kisses  the  white  of  her  heavenly  hands, 

And  her  eyelids  veiling  light. 


BEHmD   THE   PALL.  67 

Ah  !  now  I  know  that  I  will  go 

Where  my  true  affections  are. 
And  what  I  love  below  or  above 

Will  be  my  guiding  star  ; 
And  the  light  that  I  see  cometh  to  me 

Undimmed  by  the  clay  which  lies, 
Stiff  and  stark  and  growing  dark 

In  the  glow  of  the  tropic  skies. 

Oh  I  the  narrow  space  I  was  compassed  in. 

Chained  to  a  lump  of  earth, 
And  darkened  by  clouds  of  grief  and  sin 

From  the  moment  of  my  birth  ; 
But  I  am  free  as  thought  can  be, 

And  am  where  my  wishes  are — 
And  pure  and  bright  with  the  lucent  light 

That  flows  from  the  Lord  afar, 
Making  me  shine  with  the  rays  divine 

Eternity  cannot  mar. 


A  FACT. 

Once  (in  a  dream)  I  cauglit  a  fairy ; 

I  clipped  her  wings  and  called  her  Mary  ; 

And  O,  my  heart  was  filled  with  glee 

To  think  my  captive  she  should  be. 

But  when  I  waked,  upon  my  sight 

There  beamed  a  maiden  fair  and  bright ; 

Her  hair  hung  down  in  golden  curls ; 

Her  teeth  were  white  as  lucent  pearls ; 

Her  eyes — may  Jove  forgive  those  eyes, 

For  being  bluer  than  the  skies. 

A  form  so  fair,  that  like  the  spray, 

It  seemed  to  light  itself  away — 

In  short,  the  image  of  the  fairy, 

And  strange  to  say,  her  name  was  Mary. 

But  now,  alas,  it  should  be  so  : 

Preams  always  by  contraries  go—^ 
58 


A   FACT.  59 

And  so  went  mine,  and  I  did  rave 
That  I  no  longer  had  a  slave. 
But  what  was  worse,  alas  the  day  1 
'Twas  I  was  captive  to  the  Fay. 


COMPENSATION. 

I. 

The  roses  will  not  blow, 
The  lily  hangs  its  head, 
All  the  flowers  know 
Our  little  bud  is  dead. 

II. 

The  spangled  fields  of  night 
Are  brighter  now  at  even. 
Another  star  of  light 
Is  blossoming  in  heaven  1 

m. 

Blessings  on  the  Power, 
That,  flowing  from  afar, 
Changed  a  mortal  flower 
To  an  immortal  star, 
60 


THE  DUKE  OP  THE  OLD  REGIME. 


Parhleu  !  what  a  beautiful  blonde  ! 
Her  hair  is  a  golden  swell ; 
And  her  ripe  red  lips  are  richer 
Than  the  rarest  wine  of  Eochelle. 


Ah !  Marquis,  I  see  you  know  her ; 
Present  me  ! — ^Madame,  1  bow 
To  the  brightest  eyes  and  the  softest  lips 
That  ever  mocked  the  marriage  vow. 


ISTo  poutings — ^you  know  ray  station  ? 

I  cannot  marry  ;  but  yet. 

In  Paris  vows  are  forgotten, 

But  love  who  can  forget  ? 
61 


02       THE  DUKE  OF  THE  OLD  REGIME. 

My  hand  is  tied  to  a  coronet — 
My  heart — is  at  your  feet ; 
You  accept !  {au  revoir^  Marquis  !  ) 
You  are  mine  forever,  sweet. 


II. 

My  friends  say  I  must  marry — 
For  what  ?  Love  ?  Bah  !  a  dream : — 
No,  for  an  heir  to  the  noblest  house 
Of  the  blood  of  the  old  regime. 


Blue  eyes  will  pout  for  a  week — ■ 
Perhaps  for  a  month,  or  more  ; 
But  tears  soon  dry  in  the  genial  warmth 
Of  a  thousand  louis  W  or. 


Here  !  this  note  to  the  fair  Louise — 
And  be  careful  of  the  gold  ! 
I  marry  to  night : — a  glass  of  wine  I 
I  am  shivering  with  cold. 


THE  DUKE  OF  THE  OLD  REGIME.       63 


III. 


What's  this  ?    A  bag  of  gold ! 
A  welcome  thing,  parbleu — 
A  lock  of  hair — a  scented  note- 
And  the  single  word  "  adieu  !" 


My  carriage — quick,  my  carriage  ! 
To  Louise,  in  the  Hue  des  Morts — 
This  is  the  house  !   down  with  the  steps  ! 
Await  me  at  the  door. 


Ah  !  lazy  one,  still  on  the  couch, 
Eeclining  at  your  ease  ; 
Say,  why  this  note  and  a  lock  of  hair  \ 
Have  you  grown  romantic,  Louise  ? 


No  answer  !  Come  your  hand ! 
"Well,  then,  your  lips  instead — 
Great  God  !  the  lips  are  breathless — • 
The  fair  Louise  is  dead. 


64        THE  DUKE  OF  THE  OLD  EEGIME. 

Away,  away,  to  my  waiting  bride  ! 

My  lidson  was  but  a  dream — 

I  tliank  thee.  Death !  thou  hast  proven  the  friend 

Of  a  duke  of  the  old  regime. 


SALVATION. 


"  All,  all  alone  to  solve  the  doubt, 
To  work  our  own  salvation  out, 
Casting  our  feeble  hands  about." 

Mrs.  E.  Odkes  Smith. 


Ko  !  not  alone  to  solve  tlie  doubt — • 
No !  not  alone  to  work  it  out, 
For  Kature's  aids  are  round  about. 

The  tender  buds  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Bow  down  with,  faith  before  the  air, 
And  breathe  their  fragrance  out  in  prayer. 

The  moaning  sea  without  a  friend, 

Looks  up  to  where  the  rainbows  bend. 

Which  whisper,  "  Hope^  thy  pain  will  end." 
65 


66  SALVATION. 

The  moon  takes  pity  on  the  night. 
And  gives,  in  charity^  her  light, 
And  folds  her  in  a  mantle  bright. 


Thus  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Charity, 

The  oracles  of  Deity, 

Have  power  to  solve  the  mystery* 

And  meek  Religion  with  her  light, 
Dissolves  the  gloom  of  Error's  night. 
And  brings  the  oracles  in  sight. 

They,  by  their  teachings  good  and  wise. 
Instruct  us  where  salvation  lies, 
Till  all  is  clear  before  our  eyes. 

Then,  rising  with  us  from  the  sod, 
They  wing  the  path  by  angels  trod, 
And  lay  iis  at  the  feet  of  God. 


THE  PERI  AND   THE  FLOWERS. 

'TwAs  just  at  tlie  lioiir  when  Phoebus  was  sinking 
To  his  golden-fringed  bed  in  the  billowy  sea, 

And  the  beams  of  the  Day-god   were  curiously 
linking 
The  tips  of  the  waves  with  the  buds  on  tlie  lea. 

His  last  dying  rays  wove  a  chaplet  of  glory 
That  circled  the  brow  of  a  Peri  of  air, 

As  she  stood  in  the  garden,  relating  the  story 
Of  her  grief,  to  the  flowers  surpassingly  fair. 

She  told  them  how  heaven  had  once  been  the 
home 
Of  the  Peris,  ere  Error  had  led  them  astray  ; 
Ere  their  first  disobedience  compelled  them  to 
roam, 
Through  the  regions  above,  on  their  wandering 

way — 

67 


68        THE  PERI  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

With  no  hope  to  them  left  their  bright  home  to 
regain, 
Yet  too  pure  for  this  cold-hearted  planet  of  ours : 
As  she  ended  the  wind  breathed  a  sigh  for  her 
pain, 
And   dew-drops   of  sympathy  fell   from    the 
flowers. 

The  Peri  was  moved  by  this  pitying  token, 
And  her  heart  thrilled  with  love  for  th^se  gems 
of  the  earth, 
Who  could  pity  her  griefs,  though  they  knew 
would  be  broken 
Their  trail  ties  of  life  when  the  morrow  had 
birth. 

So  bending  low  down  till  her  lips  pressed  the 
flowers. 
While  sparkled  the  sunbeams  that  gilded  her 
brow, 
She  asked  them  if  aught  in  the  scope  of  her 
powers. 
Could  make  them  more  happy,  more  joyous 
than  now. 


THE    PEKI    AND   THE    FLOWERS.  69 

The  flowers  looked  up  and  smiled  on  her  tenderly, 

While  o'er  them  the  light  from  her  diadem 

broke, 

And  their  fairy -like  leaves  that  were  "fashioned 

so  slenderly," 

Trembled  with  joy  at  each  word  that  she  spoke. 

Then  they  answered  and  told  her  how  sad  was 
their  lot : 
One  day  on  the  bosom  of  beauty  to  lie, 
Till  their  bright  hues  had  faded,  their  fragrance 
forgot. 
Then  cast  aside,  scornful,  to  wither  and  die. 


And  they  prayed  their  bright  hues  might  at  once 
be  transferred 

To  some  object  whose  life  faded  not  in  a  day — 
The  Peri  the  moment  their  griefs  had  been  heard. 

Promised,  and  kissed  the  pure  dew-drops  away. 

Then  she  gathered  a  violet,  verbena  and  rose, 
A  jessamine  too,  and  a  lily  so  fair  ; 


70  THE   PERI    AND    THE   FLOWERS. 

A  thought  on  her  face  one  instant  there  glows, 
Then  spreading  her  pinions  she  rose  on  the  air. 

To  a  cool  shady  nook  by  a  streamlet  she  flew, 
Where  a  maid   was  reclining  in  Sleep's  soft 
embrace ; 
Then  forth  from  her  bosom  the  flowers  she  drew, 
And    waved   their  light  forms   o'er   the   fair 
maiden's  face. 

The  hue  of  the  violet  faded  away 

In  the  eyes  of  the  maid,  and  a  bright  drop  of 
dew 
Illumined  her  cheek,  like  a  meteor's  ray. 

As  it  drops  to  the  earth  from  its  mansion  of 
blue. 

The  rose  and  the  jessamine  sank  in  her  cheek  : 

So  blended  together  their  loveliness  lay, 

Vain,  vain,  'twould  have  been  for  the  Graces  to 
seek 

Where  the  jessamine  dawned  or  the  rose  died 
away. 


THE    PEKI    AND    THE   FLOWERS.  Tl 

On  the  lips  of  the  maid  the  verbena  did  fall, 
And  there  its  bright  crimson  sank  joyful  to 
rest ; 

And  the  lily,  the  softest,  the  fairest  of  all, 
The  emblem  of  Purity  slept  on  her  breast. 

Then   the  Peri,  removing  the  crown  from  her 

head, 
Left  its  scintillent  hue  in  the  maid's  floating 

hair — 

"  Be  happy  at  last,"  to  the  flowers  she  said, 

And  sought  her  own  home  in  the  regions  of  air. 


CURST  AND  BLEST. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  hope  is  dead  and  gone — 

Buried  deep  in  the  depths  of  my  heart — 
Buried  like  thousands  gone  before. 

Only  it  lies  in  a  grave  apart ; 
For  brighter  it  was  than  all  the  rest. 

And  dearer  to  me  than  all  beside, 
And  this,  perhaps,  was  why  it  went 

And  left  me  alone  with  my  pain  and  pride. 

But  pride,  I  fear,  will  never  suffice 
To  fill  the  place  of  a  buried  love — 

Can  the  lightning's  writhing  athwart  the  sky 
Make  us  forget  the  stars  above  ? 

'Tis  manly,  no  doubt,  to  laugh  in  pain — 
To  scoff  at  a  love  you  have  lost,  in  fine, 

But  a  laugh  will  hardly  make  up  for  a  love, 

Or  the  human  supplant  the  divine. 

72 


CURST   AND   BLEST.  73 

"  Then,  why  not  die  ?"  says  a  tempting  voice. 

I  would  that  I  might,  but  I  lack  the  nerve, 
Nay,  now  your  eyes  bespeak  me  a  coward. 

And  on  your  lip  sits  a  scornful  curve. 
So  let  it  be— but  I  lack  the  nerve 

To  make  this  living  frame  a  clod  ; 
Fearful  I  am  to  throw  my  life 

Into  the  very  face  of  God, 


Beside,  my  days  are  not  all  in  all, 

A  terrible  throbbing  of  heart  and  brain — 
Promethean  tortures  were  made  for  gods, 

But  men  are  finite  even  in  pain  ; 
And  so,  my  agony  sleeps  at  times. 

And  supernal  joys  that  few  can  know, 
Bless  me  beyond  the  dreams  of  men, 

And  flush  my  soul  with  a  heavenly  glow  I 

For  I  have  a  friend — a  luminous  friend — 
The  soul  of  the  poppies  rich  and  red. 

That  walks  the  pathways  of  my  heart 
Like  an  angel  among  the  dead. 


74  CURST    AND   BLEST. 

And  down,  far  down  to  the  bottom  lie  goes. 
Till  lie  comes  to  the  hope  that  is  buried  there, 

Waves  his  magical  hands,  and  lo ! 

A  blessing  upstarts  from  a  great  despair. 

Tlien  why  should  1  die,  with  such  a  friend 

To  work  his  miracle  when  I  will — 
To  speak  to  me  like  Christ  to  the  waves. 

And  quiet  my  heart  with  his   "  Peace,  be 
still?" 
No  !  twine  sw^eet  flowers  around  my  brow. 

And  give  me  the  wondrous  drug  to  drink, 
That  makes  it  a  melody  only  to  live, 

And  a  perfect  poem  to  think. 


THE  SCOFFERS. 


Sit  thee  down,  my  friend,  and  sing. 
Weary  moments  to  beguile ; 

Death  for  us  has  lost  his  sting, 
And  the  grave  doth  grimly  smile. 


We  are  young,  'tis  true,  in  years, 
But  our  age  is  in  the  heart ; 

We  have  looked  at  life  through  tears, 
And  have  seen  our  hopes  depart 


We  have  drank  of  ruby  wine, 

Till  our  blood  was  liquid  fire, 
And  have  knelt  at  Passion's  shrine, 

Till  excesses  drowned  desire. 

75 


76  -  THE   SCOFFERS. 

We  have  listened  to  Love's  lies — 
And  tlie  change  of  hopes  to  fears, 

Quenched  the  light  within  our  eyes, 
By  a  sudden  fall  of  tears. 

"  Sapientia  et  Yirtute^'^ 

Was  the  motto  of  our  youth ; 

Now  we  make  a  toy  of  beauty, 
And  are  careless  of  the  truth. 

We  are  young,  and  yet  have  tried 
All  the  fleeting  joys  of  earth; 

And  our  brightest  hopes  have,  died 
At  the  moment  of  tlieir  birth. 

Fit  companions,  you  and  I, 

Heedless  of  the  dim  to-morrow, 

Caring  not  how  soon  we.  die, 
Scofling  both  at  joy  and  sorrow. 

See  the  fading  smoke  ascend. 
Curling  from  my  light  cigar — 


THE   SCOFFERS.  77 

Thus  tlie  sulphurous  smoke  will  end, 
Kising  from  the  flames  of  war. 

Many  battling  for  the  few — 

'Tis  the  antiquated  story ; 
Caring  little  what  they  do, 

In  the  vain  pursuit  of  glory. 

EecHess  through  the  blood  they  wade, 
Dying  as  each  cannon  flashes ; 

And  the  likeness  that  He  made, 
Prematurely  turned  to  ashes. 

Let  them  go,  for  they  are  fools. 
And  their  minds  will  never  ken, 

That  they  are  but  senseless  tools 

In  the  hands  of  cunning  men,  '^ 

Fame  we  laugh  to  bitter  scorn. 

For  we  both  are  well  aware, 
That,  like  flushings  of  the  dawn, 

Names  will  vanish  into  air. 


78  THE   SCOFFERS. 

Fit  companions,  you  and  I, 

Heedless  of  the  dim  to-morrow  ; 

Caring  not  how  soon  we  die, 
Scoffing  both  at  joy  and  sorrow. 

Gold  for  US  has  lost  its  charm — 
"Wliat  care  we  for  gilded  hall ! 

When  the  hearths  no  longer  warm, 
We  would  hide  it  in  a  pall. 

See  the  aged,  how  they  crave 
For  the  lucre  hard  and  cold  : 

Staggering  blindly  to  the  grave, 
Looking  backward  at  the  gold. 

Watch  them  in  the  dreary  night, 
When  they  sink  in  troubled  sleep, 

How  their  dreams,  like  devils  fright. 
And  their  flesh  with  horrors  creep. 

Hear  them  prate  of  goodly  deeds, 
And  the  doom  that  sinners  meet, 


THE   SCOFFERS.  79 

While  their  sickly  fancy  feeds 
On  some  plan  of  foul  deceit. 

Hypocrites  in  worldly  strife, 
With  their  faces  long  and  trim. 

And  their  riot  songs  of  life. 
Hounding  ever  with  a  hymn. 

See  the  cowards  droop  and  pray — 
Sucking  in  their  failing  breath — 

Moaning  o'er  their  festering  clay, — 
Trembling  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Life's  republicans  are  we, 

Laughing  at  the  grisly  King — 

Jeering  at  his  royalty — 
Fearless  of  his  boasted  sting. 

Give  thy  hand  and  let  us  shout, 
As  the  brave, and  reckless  should ; 

If  our  Lamp  of  Life  were  out, 
We'd  not  light  it  if  we  could. 


80  THE   SCOFFERS. 

Fit  companions,  you  and  I, 

Heedless  of  the  dim  to-morrow, 

Caring  not  how  soon  we  die, 
Scoffing  both  at  joy  and  sorrow. 


SONNET. 


ADELE. 


'T  WOULD  seem  the  fairies,  to  excite  surprise, 
Among  us  mortals,  had  endowed  Adele 
"With  baby-sprites  that  frolicked  in  her  eyes. 
As  erst  they  did  upon  some  lily-bell. 
So  gay  and  arch  the  lovely  maiden  seems. 
My  heart  recalls  the  creature  of  its  dreams 
In  days  that  now  are  past — the  long  ago, 
When  in  my  sleep  I  saw  her,  graceful,  play 
Among  the  violets  and  roses  gay 
In  flowery  vales  where  now  the  thistles  grow. 
The  beauty  of  my  dreams  has  come  again — 
And  Joy  is  ringing  out  pale  Sorrow's  knell — 
The  chimes  are  echoed  in  this  simple  strain ; 
Wilt  thou  accept  it,  beautiful  Adele  ? 


81 


IN  THE  GROVE. 

O5  HOW  I  love  those  vernal  spots. 
Where  daisies  and  forget-me-nots. 
And  violets  in  tufted  plots, 

Are  seen  on  every  hand — 
Where  birds  are  voicing  roundelays, 
And  lilies  look  in  summer  days, 
Like  leaning  towers  of  the  Fays, 

In  dim  old  fairy-land. 


And  wandering  there,  my  heart  is  stirred. 
As  though  I  listened  to  the  word 

Of  God,  from  angel  lips  ; 
And  selfish  thoughts  are  put  to  flight. 
Like  shadows  from  the  misty  height, 
When  waking  Day,  with  eyes  of  light. 
Breaks  from  the  wanton  arms  of  Night , 

And  walks  the  mountain  tips. 

82 


IN   THE    GKOVE.  83 

And  in  the  south,  far,  far  away, 
Where  rosy  twilights  never  stay 
To  soothe  the  parting  of  the  day, 

Or  welcome  in  the  night ; 
There  is  a  spot  most  dear  to  me. 
And  near  by  is  the  murmmingsea. 
Striving  to  tell  the  mystery 

That's  hid  from  human  sight. 


And  rich  magnolias  there  are  seen. 
With  veined  leaves  of  deepest  green. 
And  fragrant  blossoms,  that,  I  ween, 

Are  whiter  than  the  snow  ; 
And  heavy  is  the  balmy  air 
With  all  the  fragrance  floating  there, 
From  orange  flowers,  pure  and  fair, 

That  in  the  summer  grow. 


My  heart  took  lessons  of  the  sea. 
And  strove  to  tell  its  mystery, 
And  thrilled  with  wdldest  ecstacy, 
When,  with  a  royal  grace, 


84:  IN   THE   GROVF. 

She  turned  on  me  her  eyes  divine, 
And  laid  her  lily  hand  in  mine. 
And  said,  '^  I  am  forever  thine," 
And  looked  into  my  face. 

O,  fairer,  then,  the  flowers  grew  ; 
The  violets  deepened  in  their  hue  ; 
The  zephyrs  round,  her  tresses  flew  ; 

She  was  so  very  fair 
The  birds  sang  out  in  tuneful  mirth. 
And  sunbeams  danced  upon  the  earth, 

To  music  in  the  air. 

The  sea  still  murmurs  on  the  strand. 
But  I  am  in  a  northern  land. 
And  she  obeyed  a  stern  command. 

And  gave  her  doubly  perjured  hand 
To  one  who  loves  her  not ; 
And  though  remembrance  calleth  tears, 
And  fills  my  heart  with  shadowy  fears, 
Yet  still  that  grove  in  coming  years 

Will  never  be  forgot ; 
The  memory  of  the  past  endears 

And  sanctifies  the  spot, 


DESPAIR 


-Despair, 


Thou  hjist  the  noblest  issues  of  all  ill, 
Whichfrailly  brings  us  to  I 

Sir  Robert  Howard. 


I  LONG  for  the  blast  of  tlie  trumpet, 

I  long  for  the  cannon's  roar, 
Where  fearless  men  are  rushing 

On  to  the  sable  shore  , 
Where  the  guns  are  flashing  brightly, 

'Mid  their  own  sulphurous  breath ; 
Where  the  rifle  balls  are  whizzing, 

And  singing  their  song  of  death. 

Where  the  charger  is  neighing  loudly, 

And  pawing  the  bloody  sod  ; 
Where  a  youth  rushes  on  to  battle, 

With  a  thought  of  his  mother  and  God  ; 

85      , 


86  DESPAIR. 

Where  a  shout  of  defiance  is  ringmg, 
Far  over  the  blood-stained  field. 

And  the  gushing  life  is  flowing 
From  hearts  that  never  will  yield. 


Where  banners  are  proudly  waving, 

Regilt  by  the  cannon's  flame, 
And  thousands  rush  after  its  glimmei. 

In  search  of  a  grave  or  a  name  : 
Where  the  soul  goes  mad  with  passion. 

Breaking  forth  in  a  fiendish  -yell. 
Like  the  cry  of  a  demon  rushing 

To  the  fiery  regions  of  hell. 

Where  the  cares  of  the  world  are  forgotten, 

Or  drowned  in  a  crimson  flood  ; 
And  the  scene  of  carnage  and  battle, 

Is  stirring  the  sluggish  blood: 
Where  no  thought  of  the  dull  to-morrow, 

Is  clouding  the  heart  of  to-day ; 
Where  the  soul  is  freed  from  its  fetters, 

And  scorning  the  earthly  clay. 


DESPAIK.  87 

Yes,  I  long  for  some  wild  excitement, 

To  banish  my  spirit's  pain, 
To  quench  the  light  of  those  murderous  eyes. 

That  burn  in  my  throbbing  brain. 
Then  give  me  the  blast  of  the  trumpet, 

Then  give  me  the  cannon's  roar. 
Till  the  angel  of  Death  shall  clasp  my  hand, 

And  lead  to  the  shadowy  shore. 


MAUD    AND    I. 


Maud  and  I  were  slowly  walking 

By  the  borders  of  the  sea. 
Where  the  waves  were  wildly  talking 

Of  the  times  that  used  to  be. 


A  snowy  hand  was  lying, 

Softly  pressed  within  my  palm  ; 

Maud  had  pouted,  then  had  kissed  me — 
First  a  tempest,  then  a  calm. 


We  were  speaking  of  the  future — 

Of  the  happy  days  to  be. 

When  the  vines  should  wreath  a  garland 

O'er  our  cottage  by  the  sea. 
88 


MAUD    AND   I.  89' 

Soon  a  little  wave  came  dancing 

Up  the  white  and  pebbly  shore, 
Till  the  feet  of  Maud  were  moistened, 

Tlien  it  ran  and  came  no  more. 


But  it  left  a  curse  behind  it 
That  will  shadow  all  my  life  ; 

It  has  dimmed  the  golden  future- 
It  has  robbed  me  of  a  wife. 


There  is  Maud  so  pale  and  drooping. 
In  the  arm-chair  by  the  door ; 

Like  the  moaning  sea,  she's  talking 
Of  the  dreamy  days  of  yore. 


Spi'ing  has  pulsed  to  life  the  flowers — 
They  are  blooming  in  the  lane ; 

And  Maud's  cheeks  have  lost  their  roses- 
Will  they  ever  bloom  again  ? 


90  MAUD   AND   I. 

An  unseen  hand  is  stealing 

From  ray  plighted  one  her  breath  ; 
That  stealthy  wave  has  killed  her — 

Eolling  from  the  shores  of  Death. 


The  flowers  are  fresh  and  fragrant, 
But  they  have  no  charms  for  me ; 

My  Maud  is  dying,  dying — 
Murdered,  walking  by  the  sea. 


EPISTLE  TO  A.  P.  S. 


"  O  friend  of  mine,  thou  art  a  happy  fellow  I" 

Extrad  from  a  Letter. 


And  so,  my  friend  of  early  days ! 

You  call  me  "  happy  fellow," 
And  think  life's  fruits  that  come  to  me 

Are  alvrays  ripe  and  mellow  ; 
And  that  my  days  are  but  a  chain 

Composed  of  rosy  hours  ; 
That  time  for  me  has  hid  his  scythe. 

And  shod  himself  with  flowers. 


Ah  me  !   you  little  know  the  pain 
Tliat  weighs  upon  my  heart. 

That  shares  with  me  each  passing  day 
And  claims  the  greater  part. 


EPISTLE   TO   A.    P.    S. 


Ton  little  know — how  slionld  yon  know  \ 
The  cross  that  I  am  bearing  ; 

How  can  yon  see  with  those  gay  eyes, 
The  thorny  wreath  I'm  wearing  ? 


My  lip-deep  smile  is  bnt  the  mask 

To  hide  the  bitter  feeling 
That  twines  aronnd  my  tortured  heart 

Like  doubt  aroimd  believing. 
The  langh  yon  hear  is  bnt  a  sound 

To  drown  the  inner  moaning  ; 
To  muffle,  with  its  joyous  ring, 

The  spirit's  hollow  groaning. 


The  happy  rhyme  I  often  weave, 

Is  but  the  fruitless  singing 
That  strives  to  soothe  the  aching  heart 

That  Titan  griefs  are  wringing. 
And  poets  all  attest  the  truth 

Tliey  from  experience  borrow. 
That  melody  is  pain,  and  song 

The  synonyme  of  sorrow  : 


EPISTLE   TO   A.    P.    S.  93 

And  he  that  wears  the  brightest  wreath 

Has  heart  most  torn  and  gory. 
As  tortured  Etna  writhes  below 

To  crown  her  head  with  glory. 
O  Poets,  on  the  rack  of  life 

Where  is  your  consolation  ! 
O  suffering  spirits,  what  remains 

To  cheer  your  desolation  ! 


Your  longings  for  the  undefined 

Beget  the  heart's  desponding; 
Your  frantic  cries  for  sympathy 

Still  meet  with  no  responding ; 
You  turn  to  clasp  the  flowers  of  earth, 

But  soon  death  interposes, 
And,  with  a  sweep  of  his  riglit  arm, 

Makes  dust  of  all  your  roses. 


And  I  have  seen  dear  loving  eyes 
Grow  dark  in  death's  eclipse — 

The  golden  ringlet  lie  unstirred 
Upon  the  breathless  lips, 


94  EPISTLE   TO   A.    P.    S. 

0  star-like  eyes  !  O  golden  hair  I 
O  lips  that  showered  kisses  ! 

1  pine  for  want  of  tenderness, 

And  faint  for  your  caresses. 


And  what  is  left  to  satisfy 

My  spirit's  ceaseless  yearning — 
To  lay  the  ghosts  of  murdered  hopes 

Forevermore  returning  ? 
O  Death  !  my  last,  my  only  joy 

Eelentlessly  youVe  taken, 
And  once  again  the  cry  goes  up, 

''  My  God !  I  am  forsaken." 

Forgive  me,  Christ !  that  I  did  use 

Tlie  words  which  thou  hast  spoken — 
Smite  lightly  with  thy  chast'ning  rod 

A  heart  already  broken : 
Forgive  me,  God  !  if  in  my  pain 

My  reason  was  suspended — 
That  in  the  ravings  of  my  grief 

I  have  thy  grace  offended. 


EPISTLE   TO   A.    P.    8.  95 

"  Forsaken !"  he  that  breathes  the  word 

Denies  Christ's  intercession — 
Forgets  the  cross  on  Calvary, 

The  Bloody  Sweat  and  Passion. 
''  Forsaken  !"  no  !  that  word  should  be 

The  Christian's  brightest  token, 
Eecalling  all  the  love  of  Him 

By  whom  it  once  was  spoken. 

Then  let  the  tempest  rage  in  wrath, 

Its  utmost  terror  spending ; 
Why  should  I  fear,  while  bright  above. 

The  bow  of  Hope  is  bending ! 
O  Earth  I  your  pains  are  but  a  dream ! 

O  Death  !  your  gloomy  portal. 
Though  thronged  with  hideous  images, 

Leads  on  to  joy  immortal. 

And  so  I  turn  my  eyes  above. 

To  seek  for  consolation. 
And  find  a  light  not  seen  before, 

To  cheer  my  desolation. 


96  EPISTLE   TO   A.    P.    S. 

O  Brothers  !  groping  in  the  dark, 
With  hearts  oppressed  and  aching, 

Look  upward  to  the  dawn  of  God, 
Wliich  high  above  is  breaking. 


And  thou,  my  friend  of  early  days, 

No  more  shalt  hear  me  sorrow ; 
I'll  stay  my  passions  in  their  course, 

And  from  them  wisdom  borrow. 
The  bitterest  griefs  that  come  to  me 

No  more  shall  find  me  frowning — 
'Tis  mine  to  meekly  bear  the  cross, 

And  God's  to  do  the  crowning. 


WINE ! 

Give  me  a  golden  goblet,  girl. 

And  crown  it  high  with  wine — 

The  sorrow  that  clings  to  my  tortured  heart, 

I  would  drown  in  a  draught  divine. 

Let  the  wine  be  red  as  the  roses  rare, 

That  bloom  in  the  gorgeous  East, 

And  its  flavor  rich  as  the  Moslem  taste, 

In  their  dreams  of  the  Prophet's  feast. 


There's  a  spell  in  the  blood  of  the  martyred 

grape,  ' 

That  can  soothe  the  pulse  of  pain — 

That  can  quell  the  throbs  of  a  tortured  heart. 

Till  we  dream  we  are  blest  again  ; 

And  the  smears  and  stains  the  wine  may  leave. 

Can  be  speedily  washed  away, 
6 


98 


WINE  ! 


But  the  blot  of  blood  on  a  guilty  hand, 
Will  cling  till  the  Judgment  day. 

0  she  was  fair  as  the  flowers  that  bloom. 
In  the  garden  of  Persia's  king, 

Where  the  floral  gems  of  every  clime 

Are  strewn  by  the  prodigal  spring — 

But  she  was  false  as  the  sulphurous  light 

That  plays  round  a  mouldy  tomb, 

And  the  death  she  met  by  my  frenzied  hands, 

"Was  a  well  deserved  doom. 

And  yet  the  glance  of  her  dying  eyes. 

Still  haunts  my  troubled  soul. 

But  the  heart's  great  balm,  forgetfulness. 

Is  found  in  the  bubbling  bowl. 

So  fill  the  gaping  goblet  up, 

1  will  quaff  from  its  jewelled  brim. 

Till  the  blood  on  this  hand  shall  fly  my  sight, 
And  the  glance  of  those  eyes  grow  dim. 

O  the  rare  red  wine  is  a  sovereign  balm. 
For  the  sorrows  that  press  us  down. 


WINE !  99 

And  the  royal  grape,  in  purple  robed, 

Is  worthy  a  monarch's  crown ; 

And  while  my  soul  is  under  the  spell 

Of  the  great  enchanter,  Wine, 

The  plummet  of  conscience  cannot  sound. 

The  depths  of  this  guilt  of  mine 


IN  THE  MOONLIGHT. 


Into  the  moonlight  pale  and  dim, 

Side  by  side  they  trod, 
Her  heart  was  filled  with  love  of  him, 

His  with  fear  of  God. 


Came  a  spirit  tempting  to  sin — 
Sadly  urged  were  they ; 

She  stood  up  with  her  love  within. 
He  knelt  down  to  pray. 


Died  the  words  on  his  heated  lips — 
His  fear  of  God  was  gone ; 

The  light  that  led  him  was  in  eclipse, 
Her's  the  briorhter  shone. 


IN   THE   MOONLidtif ;  '  .  .  '    \       '     '  101> 

Glarjced  he  upward  in  her  eyes — 

Came  back  his  self-control ; 
The  truth  was  clear  !   Love  purifies, 

Fear  vitiates  the  soul. 


Out  of  the  moonlight  pale  and  dim, 

Side  by  side  they  trod, 
Saved  were  they  by  her  love  of  him, 

Not  his  fear  of  God. 


LOVE'S    ARTIFICE. 

Love  aimed  at  me  a  shining  dart. 

With  whicli  to  pierce  my  quivering  heart. 

But  I  escaped  his  careless  aim, 

And  still  my  heart  remained  the  same. 

The  little  god  another  drew. 

But  from  the  mark  away  it  flew ; 

Another  and  another  sent, 

Until  his  arrows  all  were  spent — 

While  I  was  laughing  at  the  artS; 

By  which  I  'scaped  his  cruel  darts, 

The  wily  god  then  set  a  trap. 

And  caught  me  by  a  strange  mishap. 

He  made  the  net  of  hopes  and  fears, 

And  twined  it  round  with  smiles  and  tears, 

And  placed  within  it  as  a  prize, 

Tlie  loving  liglit  of  Lesbia's  eyes. 


LOVE'S    ARTIFICE.  103 

I  saw  the  bait  so  tempting  shine, 

And  thought  to  make  the  illusion  mine, 

And,  heedless  of  the  dangers  there, 

I  thoughtless  rushed  into  the  snare. 

The  hopes  and  fears  then  clasped  me  tight, 

But  far  above  me  gleamed  the  light. 

And,  O,  my  heart  beat  quick  to  see. 

It  shone  on  every  one  but  me. 

I  writhed,  and  in  an  angry  pet 

I  strove  to  break  the  treacherous  net, 

But  all  in  vain  :  it  held  me  fast, 

And  I  a  captive  am  at  last. 


WHO  CAN  TELL  7 


She  lived  a  life  of  sin  and  shame. 

Spurned  by  the  fool,  shnnned  by  the  good- 

A  withered  hope,  a  blasted  name, 
A  blighted  womanhood. 


She  died  within  a  loathsome  den — 
Unwept-for  to  the  grave  was  borne. 

While  sleek-cheeked,  pious  hypocrites 
Sneered  with  a  smile  of  scorn, 


And  said :  "  This  is  the  end  of  sin. 

And  Satan  now  has  claimed  his  own!'- 

Forgetting  Christ — "  He  that  is  pure, 
Let  him  first  cast  a  stone." 


WHO   CAN   TELL?  105 

"  Judge  not,  lest  ye  be  judged,"  He  said; 

And  e'en  the  thief  upon  the  cross, 
Gave  up  his  life  in  penitence — 

A  gainer  by  the  loss. 


And  gentle  Mercy  pleads  for  all ; 

And  she,  perhaps,  may  dwell 
CTp  with  the  singing  hosts  of  Heaven — 

Peace,  bigot !  who  can  tell  ? 


TO 

We  meet  no  more — so  let  it  be — 
The  fault  is  mine.    We  will  not  speak 
Of  what  would  bring  a  burning  blush 
Upon  my  pallid  cheek. 


Suffice  to  say,  I  lacked  the  nerve 
To  run  a  tilt  with  sneer  and  frown ; 
To  battle  with  the  lion-world 
And  beat  the  monster  down. 


I  should  have  laughed  the  frowns  to  scorn. 
And,  spite  of  sneers,  made  you  my  bride. 
But  Love,  the  monarch,  played  the  slave, 
And  basely  bowed  to  Pride. 


TO .  107 

And  so,  what  once  was  all  my  joy — 
My  love  for  you — is  now  my  curse ; 
It  weakens  all  my  holds  on  life — 
I  slip  from  bad  to  worse.* 


Another's  hand  has  clasped  your  own. 
And  holds  you  in  its  future  fate ; 
I  stretch  my  arms  to  you  in  vain, 
Too  late — too  late — too  late ! 


You  weep,  but  tears  are  sorrow's  children 
E-ipening  in  time  to  joys.     For  me 
There  are  no  tears  to  weep — despair 
Is  barren  as  the  sea. 


I  struggle  not,  but  wait  for  Death, 
With  folded  arms  upon  my  breast ; 
The  drama  of  my  life  is  done — 
God !  let  the  actor  rest. 


EPISTLE  TO   T.  H.  W. 

My  cherished  friend,  the  tide  of  time 

Is  rolling  onward  fast — 
And  pleasure-bubbles  on  the  stream, 

Are  sure  to  burst  at  last ; 
And  so,  for  once,  Yl\  heed  them  not. 

But  graver  things  review, 
And  in  an  unpretending  way, 

Will  send  my  thoughts  to  you. 

To  you,  my  friend,  who  knew  me  well 

In  boyhood's  happy  hours, 
"When  all  the  ''  stern  realities," 

Were  hid  by  summer  flowers. 
But  flowers  will  fade  and  cares  will  come. 

And  brightest  hopes  will  die— 
And  joyful  laughs  which  onoe  r^ng  out, 

Be  muffled  with  a  siffh. 


EPISTLE   TO   T.    H.    W.  109 

For  boyhood's  dreams  are  idle  things — 

And  vanish  in  a  day, 
And  what  we  thought  etherial  then, 

Is  now  but  common  clay. 
For  time  will  change — the  flower  of  love 

Be  crushed  and  trampled  down ; 
Its  balmy  fragrance  lost  amid 

The  passions  of  the  town. 


The  sympathy  which  once  we  felt, 

For  all  our  suffering  brothers, 
The  nervous  hand  of  Selfishness, 

TJnpityingly  smothers. 
Men  give  no  more  to  Misery, 

A  tear,  or  e'en  a  sigh. 
But  they  would  sell  their  brightest  hope 

If  any  one  would  buy. 


The  motto  on  the  flag  of  Life, 
Is,  "  Each  one  for  himself ^^^ 

— And  Honesty  and  Charity, 
Are  laid  upon  the  shelf. 


110  N       EPISTLE   TO   T.    H.    W. 

And  so,  you  see,  my  valued  friend, 
Of  Virtue  there's  a  dearth. 

Because  men  judge  the  worth  of  Man 
By  what  the  man  is  worth. 


And  Gold's  a  great  Mechanic,  friend, 

And  shapeth  many  things ; 
He  maketh  Fame, — a^^e.  Honor  too, 

And  hateful  wedding  rings. 
Yes,  Gold's  a  great  Mechanic,  friend, 

And  Man  is  but  the  tool, 
And  every  golden  thing  is  loved. 

Except  tlie  "  Golden  Bule.'^^ 


E'en  Poets,  too,'  have  golden  dreams, 

Of  maids  with  golden  tresses. 
Their  faces  wreathed  in  golden  smiles, 

Tlieir  forms  in  golden  dresses. 
And  heaven  they  call  a  golden  land, 

"Where  clouds  have  golden  rims. 
And  Angels  on  the  golden  strand, 

Are  singing  golden  hymns. 


EPISTLE   TO   T.    H.    W.  Ill 

And  we  have  strange  Idolaters, 

Upon  this  Christian  sod. 
Who  bow  through  life  at  Mammon's  shrine, 

And  dying,  call  on  God. 
But  He  will  see  the  counterfeit, 

Though  cast  in  Virtue's  mould  ; 
And  punish  them  for  want  of  Faith, 

In-  anything,  but  Gold. 

And  I  am  weary  of  the  strife, 

And  hope  to  leave  it  soon  ; 
For  to  my  ears,  the  Harp  of  Life, 

Seems  sadly  out  of  tune. 
And  though  from  friends  I'm  far  apart, 

My  thoughts  continual  roam, 
To  that  fair  spot,  I  love  the  best. 

My  own  dear  Southern  home. 


And  Fancy  lifts  the  Future's  veil. 
And  you  before  me  stand  ; 

And  once  again  I  see  your  face. 
And  grasp  your  friendly  hand. 


112  EPISTLE   TO   T.   H.    W. 

But  shadows  dance  upon  the  wall, 
And  mock  my  flickering  light — 

So  praying  God  may  guard  you  well, 
I  bid  you,  friend,  Good  night. 


LOVE  AND  WRONG. 


A  scoFFED-AT  prayer — the  flit  of  dress — 
The  glance  of  a  frenzied  eye — 

A  sullen  splash,  and  the  moon  shone  out, 
And  the  stream  went  muttering  by. 


And  never  again  will  I  walk  by  the  moon 
Through  the  oaks  and  chestnuts  high, 

For  fear  to  see  the  flit  of  a  dress, 
And  the  glance  of  a  frenzied  eye. 


And  some  may  laugh  and  some  may  weep, 

But  as  for  me,  I  pray. 
For  I  know  that  a  tale  of  love  and  wrong 

Will  be  told  on  the  Judgment  Day. 


THE  CONQUEROR. 

EooM  for  the  Conqueror  ! — ^room ! 
Make  way ! 
He  needs  the  total  of  the  rounded  earth 
To  stretch  his  limbs.     'Tis  useless  that  ye  pray. 
He  comes !  muffling  mirth  on  pallid  lips   of 

clay! 
All  must  submit — his  mandates  all  obey. 
From  frosty  Age  to  things  of  yesterday. 
E'en  babes,  within  their  mother's  womb, 
Are  subject  to  his  sway  ! 
Stern-hearted  Manhood  is  his  daily  prey  ; 
And  lily-browed,  rose-cheeked  maidens  gay, 
Eadiant  in  their  bloom, 
Kesign  their  lovers  to  become  his  bride  ; 

Eoom  for  the  Conqueror  ! — room  ! 
He  comes ! 
The  Great  Invisible  !  with  stealthy  stride — 
Wreathed  in  e-loom — 


THE    CONQUEROR.  115 

Pride 

Unbends  and  grovels  in  the  dust, 

Before  his  frown ! 
Kings  leave  their  Inst, 
And,  pale  as  lilies  on  a  moon-lit  tomb. 

Come  down 
From  their  gilt  thrones,  and  lie  supine. 
Like  tumbled  statues,  till  the  Day  of  Doom  I 

Love — Valor — Fame, 
Shrink  before  his  breath. 

And  mingle  with  the  sod. 
He  comes  ! — the  Messenger  Divine — 

The  calling  voice  of  God ; 
And  in  His  name, 

Eoom  for  the  Conqueror ! — room ! 

Eoom  for  the  mighty  Death ! 


O  Lover  !  O  Poet !  sing  me  a  song — 
A  song  of  my  eyes  and  lips- 
Till  the  rose  turn  pale  with  a  secret  dread 
That  my  lips  can  boast  of  a  deeper  red, 
And  the  sun  that  has  lit  the  world  so  long, 
Shall  glance  at  my  eyes  and  hide  his  head, 
And  own  to  a  fair  eclipse. 


O  Maiden !  your  eyes  are  very  bright, 

And  your  lips  are  wondrous  red ; 

But  never  a  song  a  poet  can  sing 

Can  make  the  sun  hide  his  burning  ring, 

Or  shine  with  a  lesser  light ; 

And  the  rose  will  flush  blood-red  in  the  spring, 

And  glow  when  we  are  dead  I 


WEDDED. 


He  placed  a  golden  wedding  ring 
Upon  her  perjured  hand — 

To  her  it  seemed  a  mark  of  love  ; 
To  me,  a  burning  brand. 


And  the  priest  spoke  out  and  joined  the  two, 

For  better  or  for  worse  ; 
But  the  blessing  he  said  rang  in  my  head 

Like  the  muttering  of  a  curse. 


And  now  I  walk  the  ways  of  life 
With  smiling  lip  and  eye — 

A  dead  hope  buried  in  my  heart, 
A  phantom  hovering  by  ! 


118  WEDDED. 

And  he   can  laugh   with  his  gold-bought 
bride. 

While  I  must  weep  and  pray ; 
For  the  self-same  fire  that  warms  his  heart. 

Is  burning  my  life  away ! 


THE   GALLANT    FIFTY-ONE, 


WHO  FORMED   PART  OF  THE  LOPEZ    EXPEDITION    AND    WERE    EXBCUTED    BT 
THE  SPANISH  AUTHORITIES  IN  HAVANA. 


Freedom  called  tliem — up  they  rose, 
Grasped  their  swords  and  showered  blows 
On  the  heads  of  Freedom's  foes — 

And  Freedom's  foes  alone. 
Fate  decreed  that  they  should  die : 
Pitying  angels  breathed  a  sigh  ; 
Freedom  wildly  wept  on  high, 

For  the  gallant  Fifty -one  ! 


There  they  stood  in  proud  array ; 
None  for  mercy  there  would  pray  ; 
None  would  coward  looks  betray — 
All  stood  forth  with  fearless  eye, 


120  THE   GALLANT   FIFTY-ONE. 

Showing  by  their  dauntless  air, 
What  their  noble  souls  could  dare  ; 
Showing  to  the  tyrants  there, 
How  Freedom's  sons  could  die. 
None  there  strove  their  fate  to  shun- 
Gallant  band  of  Fifty-one  I 


Then  a  voice  the  stillness  broke : 
'Twas  their  gallant  leader  spoke, 
Scorning  to  receive  Death's  stroke, 

Kneeling  humbly  on  the  sod  ! 
Gazing  calmly  on  the  dead, 
Whose  life-blood  had  just  been  shed, 
Proudly  then  the  words  he  said, 

"  Americans  kneel  but  to  God  !" 

Perished  thus  Kentucky's  son — 

Leader  of  the  Fifty-one. 


Eejoice  !  sons  of  Thermopylae  ! 

Kindred  spirits  join  with  thee, 
Who  fell  in  fight  for  Liberty, 
For  Freedom's  sacred  name. 


THE   GALLANT   FIFTY-ONE.  121 

Future  days  their  deeds  shall  tell, 

How  the  J  nobly  fought  and  fell. 

Youthful  bosoms  proudly  swell 
At  mention  of  their  fame — 
Rays  of  light  from  Freedom's  sun. 
Gallant  band  of  Fifty-one  ! 

Honor's  rays  will  ever  shed 
Glory  'round  their  hallowed  bed. 
Though  their  hearts  are  cold  and  dead. 

Though  their  sands  of  life  have  run, 
Still  their  names  revered  will  be, 
Among  the  noble  and  the  free — 
Glorious  sons  of  Liberty  ; 

Gallant  band  of  Fifty-one  ! 


SONG : TO  - 


O  !  THE  Spring  is  here  and  decks  the  year 

With  roses  red  and  white. 
The  birds  they  sing,  and  the  bells  they  ring, 
And  all  the  day  is  bright ; 
And  the  glowing  stars. 
In  their  golden  cars, 
Eide  down  the  balmy  night ! 


But  the  rose  may  blow,  and  burn,  and  glow. 

And  crimson  all  the  Spring ; 
The  bell  may  toll  for  a  parting  soul. 
Or  for  a  bridal  ring  ; 

But  neither  roses  white  nor  red, 
Nor  clanging  bells,  nor  stars  o'erhead. 
Can  tempt  me  still  to  woo  or  wed, 
Or  love  so  slight  a  thing  ! 


WEARY. 


My  life  is  weary,  and  my  days 
'  Epitomes  of  weariness ; 
Vacant  of  joy  or  liappiness. 

And  careless  of  tlie  blame  or  praise 


That  men  are  wont  to  thrust  on  those 
With  whom  they  daily  toil  and  fret : 

I  know  my  weakness,  and  regret 
My  stream  of  life  so  sluggish  flows. 


And  yet,  I  mingle  with  my  kind, 
And  trade  and  traffic  with  the  rest, 

And  hide  my  yearnings  in  my  breast 
For  larger  pastures  for  the  mind : 


124  WEAEY. 

Wliere  it  may  feed  on  higher  things 
Than  ripen  on  a  Ledger's  page, 

Till  glowing  with  a  noble  rage 

It  feels  the  quivering  of  its  wings— 


And  fain  wonld  try  a  flight  above, 
Through  realms  of  ether  and  of  light, 

Untoucht  by  any  shade  of  night, 
With  fuller  joy  and  ampler  love. 


But  ere  the  wish  can  breathe  a  breath, 
To  urge  the  thought  into  an  act, 

There  rises  up  some  hideous  fact. 

And  stabs  the  noble  thought  to  death. 


And  so  some  other  life  I  crave. 
Of  fuller  freedom  for  the  mind. 

Though,  in  the  shifting,  I  may  find 
The  deep  contentment  of  the  grave. 


^  CRAZED. 


I  HATE  tlie  stars  with  a  deadly  hate ! 

Would  they  were  bound  in  hell : 
They  stare  at  me  wherever  I  go  ; 

And  I  know  the  reason  well. 


The  hag  and  I  met  at  the  oak. 

While  the  staring  stars  looked  down. 

And  the  tree  seemed  withering  under  a  curse, 
And  shrinking  under  a  frown. 


"  'Tis  here,"  she  whispered.      Give  it  me, 
then : 
There !  now  'tis  hid  in  the  earth  ! 
How  long  did  it  live  ?   "  I  strangled  the  babe 
.   ,  The  moment  of  its  birth." 


126  CRAZED. 

Well  done  !  well  done !     Here  is  the  gold. 
And  the  mother,  how  does  she  ? 

"  The  babe  was  born  as  the  clock  struck  one, 
And  the  mother  died  at  three." 
*  *  *  *  * 

None  living  know  that  the  child  was  mine, 
For  I  stabbed  her  as  she  spoke, 

And  threw  the  corse  in  the  stagnant  pool, 
Down  by  the  blasted  oak. 


The  stars  they  saw  me  bury  the  babe 
And  stab  the  hag  by  the  tree  : 

And  this  the  reason — curse  them  all  I 
They  stare  forever  at  me ! 


WAITING. 

I  BEGGED  one  kiss,  one  parting  kiss, 
For  love  of  thousands  gone  before  ; 
In  vain,  in  vain — ^she  shook  her  head, 
And  said,  "  the  olden  days  are  dead — 
O !  why  recall  what  now  has  fled 
Perchance  for  ever  more." 


I  strove  to  hide  the  scalding  tears 
That  welled  up  from  my  writhing  heart, 
And  thought  and  said — for  men  are  vain, 
And  think  what  was  should  be  again — 
"  My  kisses  once  gave  little  pain 
And  now,  alas !  we  part." 


"  It  cannot  be,"  again  she  said, 

"  The  days  are  dead,  O  I  let  them  rest ; 


128  WAITING. 

Tlie  withered  rose  no  more  will  bloom, 
And  when  the  sun  sinks  to  his  doom. 
He  gilds  but  cannot  warm  his  tomb 
Far  in  the  dreamy  west." 


"  The  rose,"  I  said,  "  will  bloom  again 
And  glow  with  crimson  life, 
And  though  the  sun  may  hide  his  head 
He  shines  again  when  night  has  fled — 
Time  even  resurrects  the  dead — 
Thou  yet  shalt  be  my  wife." 


"  It  cannot  be,  yet  take  this  kiss — 
Forget  me — ^learn  to  hate." 
She  vanished,  and  I  dried  my  tears — 
Why  should  I  fret  my  heart  with  fears  ? 
For  love  once  born  out-lives  the  spheres. 
And  so  I  patient  wait. 


THE   PICTURE. 


The  picture's  fair,  but  fairer  far, 
I  ween  the  lady's  face  ; 

For  art  can  but  approximate 
To  nature's  perfect  grace. 


The  picture  tells  of  snowy  brow, 
By  auburn  hair  carest ; 

The  roses  on  her  cheeks  evince 
The  lily  in  her  breast. 


Her  eyes — I  cannot  tell  what  hue, 
The  angels  to  them  brought ; 

But  what  has  color  still  to  do 
With  Feeling  and  with  Tiiought  \ 


130  THE   PICTURE. 

And  art,  fair  nature's  only  child. 
Here  shadows  forth  such  grace. 

That  though  unknown,  I  can  but  choose 
To  love  so  fair  a  face. 


As  sunbeams  lie  upon  the  earth, 
That  through  the  heavens  dart ; 

So  Beauty  pierces  through  my  eyes, 
And  rests  upon  my  heart. 


AFTER  DINNER. 

Come,  pass  the  bottle,  let  us  deeply  drink — - 
In  former  days  I  held  it  passing  wise, 
To  scoff  at  wine.     Forsooth,  my  visions  then 
Were  palpable.     I  saw  them  with  my  work-day 

eyes. 
But  now  tlie  times  are  changed — I  cannot  see, 
Aught  on  the  earth,  or  in  the  skies,  divine ; 
My  eyes  are  clouded  and  my  heart  is  dull ; 
Beauty  only  comes  to  me  through  wine. 

Three  bottles  do  away  with  time  and  space, 
And  give  me  glimpses  of  a  heavenly  range. 
Where  everything  is  real ;  no  shadows  are  there. 
To  mock  our  longings  with  perpetual  change — 
The  roses'  perfume,  and  the  sunset's  tints. 
The  glories  of  the  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
The  fleeting  visions  of  our  dreams  are  real, 
Kadiant  with  life  which  is  eternity. 


132  AFTER   DINNEE. 

And  tender  thoughts  are  there  personified, 
And  hope  is  dead,  for  what  we  wish  is  ours. 
Light  flows  from  all ;  the  wandering  rays, 
Shoot  down  to  earth  and  give  the  hue  to  flowers 
And  ITature  there  has  left  no  room  for  Art  ; 
What  we  conceive  is  instant  struck  to  life ; 
Each  is  the  framer  of  his  own  bright  realm. 
Founded  on  love  and  free  from  care  or  strife. 


The  rounded  earth,  w^hich  once  I  deemed  so  fair, 
Has  lost  its  glories  and  its  charms  for  me — • 
Glowing  with  wine  I  pierce  the  misty  veil, 
That  droops  round  Time  and  hides  Eternity. 
'Tis  false  that  we  must  die  before  we  see 
The  dazzling  splendors  of  the  world  above  : 
The  mists  dissolve,  the  shadows  flit  away, 
Before  the  radiance  of  a  holy  love. 

And  such  a  love  I  feel,  when  flushed  with  wine, 
My  grosser  passions  die  or  sink  to  rest, 
Leaving  my  soul,  untrammeled  by  the  clay. 
To  seek  its  home,  and  for  a  time  be  blest. 


AFTER   DINNER.  133 

So  give  me  wine,  and  let  the  bigots  rave  ; 
I  heed  them  not — my  soaring  spirit's  free 
To  view  the  glories  that  they  know  not  of — 
"Wine  makes  a  new  apocalypse  for  me. 


MY  BIRTH-DAY. 


TO   A   FRIEND. 


My  friend,  once  more  I  sit  me  down, 

To  pen  my  thoughts  to  you, 
For  I  have  known  you  long  and  well, 

And  ever  found  you  true ; 
And  may  your  truth  be  bound  with  love, 

And  both  together  thrive — 
For  me,  a  sorrow  weighs  me  down — 

To-day  I'm  twenty-five  ! 


I'm  twenty-five  !     Well,  what  of  that  ? 

Methinks  I  hear  you  say. 
You  yet  will  revel  many  a  night, 

And  laugh  for  many  a  day. 


MY    BIRTH-DAY.  135 

You  talk  as  though  you  limped  with  age — 

Eemember,  man  alive, 
That  many  a  glorious  life  began 

Long  after  twenty-five  1 


"Es  true — 'tis  true — ^I  grant  you  that — 

But  I  have  lived  so  fast. 
My  youth  grew  old  ere  she  matured, 

And  now  she  dies  at  last ; 
And  with  her  died  the  brightest  hope 

That  lit  my  weary  way  ; 
The  morrow  brings  no  joy  for  me — 

I  weep  for  yesterday. 


'Tis  scarce  ten  minutes  since  1  left 

The  play-house  and  the  scene 
Where  Falstaff  stood  with  horned  brows, 

The  "  merry  wives  "  between  ; 
And  beauty  smiled  from  every  box, 

And  roared  the  groundling  hive  ; 
I  could  not  smile — ^my  heart  grew  cold — 

To-day  I'm  twenty-five  I 


136  MY   BIRTH-DAT. 

I'm  twenty-five !     What  have  I  done 

With  all  the  teeming  years  ? 
I've  been  a  spendthrift  with  my  joys 

And  nothing's  left  but  tears ; 
I've  wasted  love — the  only  coin 

That  God  has  ever  given, 
To  pay  the  debts  of  nature  with, 

And  pave  the  way  to  Heaven, 


And  Fame !  what  have  I  done  for  Fame  ? 

Ah  me  !  the  dreams  of  youth  I 
They  weave  a  veil  about  our  eyes, 

And  hide  the  face  of  Truth ; 
I  thought,  in  boyhood,  for  a  name, 

'Gainst  Fate  itself  to  strive — 
I've  made  no  effort,  and,  alas ! 

To-day  I'm  twenty-five ! 


And  now,  I  only  pray  for  peace — 
That  years  will  swiftly  roll 

Until  the  earth  shall  claim  the  clay 
That  hems  my  troubled  soul ; 


MY   BIRTH-DAY.  137 

And  then,  perchance,  the  hope  that's  dead 

Will  rise  again,  alive ; 
No  more — no  more— my  eyes  ar^  dim — 

To-day  I'm  twenty-five ! 


THREE   YOUNG  MEN. 

Three  young  men  rode  into  the  town. 
Side  by  side  as  the  snn  went  down ; 
Shook  hands  and  parted  to  seek  their  rest, 
And  each  to  live  as  to  him  seemed  best. 


The  first  caroused  with  cards  and  wine — 
Decked  his  harlots  with  jewels  fine. 
And  laughed  as  he  tossed  his  glass  on  high, 
Nor  recked,  God  help  him,  he  had  to  die. 


The  second  did  naught  but  moan  and  pray, 
Groan  through  the  night  and  through  the 

day- 
He  lived  in  fear,  God  help  him,  say  I, 
And  only  thought  that  he  had  to  die. 


THREE  YOUNG   MEN.  139 

The  third  enjoyed  the  goods  he  had : 
Laughed  with  the  gay  and  wept  with  the  sad, 
Nor  ever  forgot,  God  bless  him,  say  I, 
That  he  had  to  live  and  he  had  to  die. 


WESTWARD,  HOI 

Dear  Philomene,  we  two  mitst  part : 

News  has  come  to  me  from  the  West, 
That  calls  me  hence — nay  do  not  start ! 

Believe  me,  dear,  'tis  for  the  best ; 
We  must  have  parted,  spite  of  fate. 

Before  the  summer  died  away ; 
You've  told  me,  love,  that  in  the  heart, 

A  year  could  shrink  into  a  day — 


Then,  let  the  coming  year  shrink  up 

Into  an  hour  in  thy  heart. 
And  shower  the  year's  love  on  me  now, 

I  should  have  known  did  we  not  part. 
O !  cara  mia^  think  you  not, 

I  sorrow  at  the  step  I  take  ? 
I  weep  not,  true,  nor  can  I  say 

My  heart  indeed  is  like  to  break — ^ 


WESTWARD,    HO  !  141 

For  hearts  that  have  been  nursed  in  woe. 

As  mine  has  been,  get  used  to  pain  ; 
You've  seen  the  Arno,  dry  with  drought, 

Kise  up  and  seek  the  sea  again  ; 
And  thus  my  heart  though  often  dried. 

Till  earth  seems  only  fit  for  graves, 
Drinks  in  at  last  the  grace  of  God, 

And  seeks  anew  for  what  it  craves. 


Follow  me  ever  ?    Ah !  my  love, 

You  little  know  our  Western  clime, 
Where  love,  unsanctioned  by  the  priest. 

Is  reckoned  as  a  deadly  crime  ; 
Are  we  all  virtuous  ?     Hardly  so  ; 

But  then,  we  hide  with  dexterous  care 
Our  little  slips,  and  claim  respect 

For  what  we  seem,  not  what  we  are. 


And  she  who  sins  must  be  content, 
To  live  a  lie  to  all  the  rest — 

Play  hypocrite  and  bend  the  knee. 
With  vice  enshrined  within  the  breast; 


142  WESTWARD,   ho! 

We  show  no  grace  to  sinners  there — 
Once  fallen,  forever  fixed  your  lot; 

We  worship  dead  Christ  on  the  Cross— 
The  living  Christ  is  all  forgot. 


And  now,  my  love,  the  time  has  come — 

What  gold  is  mine  is  left  with  you  ; 
Nay,  now  I  swear  it  shall  be  so ; 

Dost  think  that  thou  alone  art  true  ? 
One  kiss — ah  me,  and  thou  hast  swooned 

With  thy  poor,  pallid  lips  to  mine ; 
'Tis  better  so — adieu — adieu — 

And  now,  O  Mammon,  I  am  thine  I 


LOVE. 

O  Love  ! 
Spirit  Divine ! 
Thou  reignest  in  my  heart  to-night — 
Above, 
Like  diamonds  in  a  mine, 
A  million  stars  are  bright ; 
But  none 
Equals  the  splendor  of  thy  chastening  light. 

One 
Shines  like  Michael  in  the  Immortal  fight, 
"When,  foremost  in  the  war, 
And  radiant  with  celestial  might, 
He  clove 
Aspiring  Satan  on  the  empyrean  height. 
But  thou,  O  Love  ! 
Art  brighter  far 
(Being  a  part  of  Deity,) 
Than  e'en  this  glowing,  God-created  star. 


144  LOVE, 

Tliou  reignest  in  my  heart, 
.  Which,  pulsed  with  thy  creative  purity, 
Makes  me  a  part 
Of  the  Divinity — ' 
Beneath  thy  sway 
I  claim  affinity 
With  Almighty  God, 
And  lay 
My  earthly  grossness  on  its  kindred  sod. 
I  renounce  the  clay — 
And,  piercing  with  immortal  ken 
The  gloomy  clouds  which  hide  the  undying  Day, 
I  see  the  light  that  blesses  loving  men — 

A  ray, 
Swifter  than  the  ark-flown  dove, 
Heralds  my  pathway  to  the  Promised  Land — 
I  cleave  the  holy  realms  above — 
Full  in  the  eternal  light  I  stand, 
God-flushed,  through  thee,  O  Love ! 


SONNET. 

There  is  a  beauty  in  thy  soft  blue  eyes, 

A  sunny  brightness  in  thy  golden  hair. 
That  turns  to  happy  smiles  my  deep-drawn  sighs, 
And  lights  the  darkness  of  my  heart's  despair. 
Thy  liquid  laugh  has  drowned  my  heaviest  care — 

My  cause  of  mourning's  a  forgotten  thing — 
And  from  my  heart-depths  joyous  feelings  flow, 

Like  gushing  waters  from  a  mountain  spring, 
When  Summer's  sun  has  thawed  the  Winter's 

snow. 
My  thouglits  grow  clearer,  and  at  last  I  know, 
That  Fate  has  pleasures  still  in  store  for  me. 

To  glad  my  spirit  in  the  coming  years. 

The  light  from  thy  dear  eyes  shines  on  my  tears. 
And  Hope's  fair  rainbow  owes  its  birth  to  thee. 


OUR    PARTING. 


We  walked  upon  her  father's  lands, 
'Mong  fields  of  golden  grain — 

We  met  to  say  a  sad  farewell, 
And  pray  to  meet  again. 


"  You  go,"  she  said,  "  to  win  a  name, 
As  you  have  won  my  heart ; 
Eemember  Love  attends  on  Fame, 
And  do  a  noble  part'" 


"  But  if  I  fail  to  gain  the  prize, 
Despite  of  duty  done  ?" 
She  turned  on  me  her  flashing  eyes, 
As  brilliant  as  the  sun — 


OUR  PARTma.  147 

"  My  love  is  for  the  the  man,"  she  said, 
"  Whom  Honor  noblj  hails^; 
Not  for  the  wretch  who  basely  shrinks, 
Nor  him  who  meanly  fails." 


"The  bad,"  I  said,  "  are  often  raised, 

The  good  are  oft  kept  down — 

And  many  bravely  bear  the  cross. 

Who  never  wear  the  crown." 


"  Then  such  a  one  is  not  for  me," 
She  said,  and  turned  aside — 

"  The  feeling  that  you  have  for  me 
Is  less  of  love  than  pride," 


I  answered  as  I  gave  her  back 
The  ring  she  gave  to  me. 

We  parted  there — ^Between  us  now, 
Loud  roars  the  stormy  sea. 


ON  A  TRESS  OF  HAIR. 

This  little  tress  of  Jiair  I  hold, 
Has  fluttered  on  a  brow  as  white 

As  Genius  guiding  Phidias'  hand, 
Has  ever  brought  to  light. 


And  when  this  night,  a  ye^r  ago, 
She  gave  it  me  with  kisses  sweet, 

New  hopes  came  peeping  from  my  heart, 
Like  daisies  at  my  feet. 


She  bade  me  keep  it  till  the  love 
I  had  for  her  should  all  depart-— 

Though  tears  are  gathering  in  my  eyes, 
I  press  it  to  my  heart. 


ON   A   TRESS   OF   HAIR.  149 


I  swore  that  I  would  hold  it  dear, 
As  mine  own  honor  or  my  life  ; 

Till  vows  should  ripen  into  deeds, 
And  she  become  my  wife. 


And  so  we  parted — I  with  hope, 
And  she  with  tremors  and  with  sighs ; 

But  now,  alas  !  the  hope  is  dead. 
And  tears  are  in  my  eyes. 


And  Memory  summons  up  the  Past- 
Eecalls  the  kisses  from  her  lips : 

The  sun  of  love  that  lit  my  life. 
Has  passed  into  eclipse. 


And  though  sweet  Spring  has  flushed  the  flowers. 

And  made  the  roses  ruby-red, 
Yet  she  cannot  revive  a  hope 

That  in  my  heart  is  dead. 


150  ON   A   TRESS   OF   HAIR. 

And  nothing  now  remains  to  me 
Of  her  who  was  so  false  and  fair, 

Except  the  tender  thoughts  that  cling 
Around  this  tress  of  hair. 


And  so  I  blush  not  at  the  tears. 

That  from  my  burning  eyelids  start, 

When  on  this  anniversary  night, 
I  press  it  to  my  heart. 


DAMNED. 

You  tell  me  love  is  sweet. 

But  you  lie ; 
There  is  a  sting, 
Hid  beneath  his  downy  wing, 

And  his  feet 
Trample  down  the  human  heart, 
Till  the  burning  blood-drops  start, 

And  you  die. 


I  will  tell  you — she  was  fair, 

Very  fair ; 
Her  eyes  were  soft  and  meek. 
Yet  prodigal  of  light ; 

And  her  hair, 
Hung  in  wavy  masses  low, 
On  a  brow  as  pure  as  snow ; 


152  DAMNED. 

And  her  cheek, 

Soft  and  white. 
Had  been  tinged  with  rosy  light, 

By  the  spirit  of  a  sun-set. 
That  had  died  for  love  of  night. 
I  worshipped — I  was  weak — 
I  lost  my  self-control — 

I  clasped  her  jewelled  hand — 
And — but  you  cannot  understand 
How  the  waves  of  feeling  roll. 
Till  they  overwhelm  the  whole ; 
How  our  passions  are  the  daggers, 
Stabbing  reckless  at  the  soul. 


She  is  dead — so  am  I — 
I  cannot  find  her  here — 

There's  no  light,  or  air,  or  sky, 
Only  fear. 

Time  has  ceased. — Tis  Forever. 
We  will  never  meet  again — 
All  my  dark,  despairing  pain, 

Will  leave  me  never,  never. 


DAMNED.  153 

And  she,  who  cursed  me  with  deceit, 
Even  while  I  kissed  her  feet, 

Is — can  you  tell  me  where  ? 
She  is  in  some  other  sphere, 
And  it  may  be  she  can  hear, 
Thrilling  wildly  on  her  ear, 
My  despair. 


She  will  shudder  in  the  dark — 

She  will  crave  but  for  a  spark. 
To  light  her  suffering  soul  on  the  darksome  track 
tome : 

But  she  cannot  find  me  here — 

She  must  keep  within  her  sphere, 
And  shudder  on  forever  in  her  dark  eternity. 


TO  MELANIE. 


WBITTEN    IN    AN    ALBUX. 


Perchance  upon  some  summer  day. 
When  lively  friends  are  far  away, 
You'll  wander  by  a  shady  brook. 
And  stop  within  some  verdant  nook, 
And,  gazing  on  the  sweet  wild  flowers, 
(Those  gems  that  deck  this  world  of  ours,) 
You'll  say,  "  I  doubt  there's  aught  so  bright 
As  blooming  flowers  to  the  sight.." 
In  fancy  now  I  see  you  glance 
Upon  the  glassy  stream's  expanse. 
And  all  at  once  is  put  to  rout. 
That  modest,  unassuming  doubt ; 
You  blush,  to  see  reflected  there, 
A  human  flower  twice  as  fair. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND. 


There  is  a  lady  in  the  land, 

She  is  very  sweet  and  fair, 
And  she  hath  a  lily  hand. 
Which  I  should  love  to  press ; 
But  her  air 
Is  so  stately,  and  she  mocks  at  my  distress 

With  a  manner  debonair  / 
As  though  she  had  a  queenly  right 
To  dash  my  eyes  with  royal  light. 
And  stare  to  death  my  happiness. 


Yet  there  are  times  when  she  will  change. 
And  gaze  into  mine  eyes 
With  an  earnest,  sad  surprise, 

Whilst  I  hold  my  quivering  breath ; 


156  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND. 

Then  'twill  seem  as  though  she  gazed 
Down  my  fancy's  wildest  range. 

Till,  angrily  amazed. 
At  the  love  that  blossoms  there, 
Her  eyes  hurl  back  a  scornful  glance, 
That  stabs  me  like  the  fiery  lance 

Of  an  angel  bright  and  fair  ; 
And  I  know  a  sudden  death 
Of  every  feeling,  save  despair. 


But  what  cares  she,  so  cold  and  proud, 

Whether  I  live  or  die  ? 

I  am  nought  to  her 
But  a  single  one  in  a  mighty  crowd : 

A  neglected  worshipper — 
Who  hopeless  bows  before  a  shrine 
Till  his  eyes  gi'ow  dim, 
As  though  with  wine  : 
Till  his  swelling  heart  is  heard  to  beat, 
Not  with  pleasure  soft  and  sweet, 
But  with  a  burning  passion-heat 

That  withers  it  to  the  core  : 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND.  157 

Yet  though  she  should  jeeringly  mock  at 

my  fate. 
And  shadow  my  name  with  her  blackest 
hate, 
I  should  love  her  for  evermore. 


A  TRUE  LOVER. 

I  LED  her  to  a  rustic  seat 

Beneath  a  spreading  linden  tree, 

And,  half  reclining  at  her  feet, 
I  told  my  love.     Without  deceit, 

She  said  that  she  loved  me. 

Perhaj)s  it  was  an  hour  we  staid — 
It  may  have  been  a  longer  time. 

But  when  our  mutual  vows  were  njade, 
We  left  the  linden's  friendly  shade. 

And  in  our  hearts  we  heq^rd  a  chime, 

Of  marriage  bells  so  sweet  and  clear. 
It  seemed  as  though  all  else  had  died  . 

Upon  the  portal  of  the  ear ; 

For  outward  sounds  we  did  not  hear 

As  we  walked  side  by  side. 


A   TRUE   LOVEK.  159 

The  apple  trees  were  all  in  bloom, 
Tlie  lanes  were  white  with  blossoms  fair  ; 

She  stopped  and  pointed  to  a  tomb. 
Beneath  a  yew  tree's  ghostly  gloom : 

Tlie  only  dark  thing  there. 

I  am,  she  said,  a  child  of  shame. 

My  mother  sleeps  beneath  that  tree  : 

I  never  knew  my  Father's  name — 

Her  cheeks  were  burning  as  with  flame, 

When  she  said  this  to  me. 

I  strove  to  hide  my  sad  surprise. 

And  took  her  trembling  hand  in  mine — 

And  then  was  born  within  her  eyes 
A  look  of  love  that  purifies : 

Half  human — half  divine. 

I  told  her  it  concerned  me  not 

Who  gave  so  fair  a  being  life  ; 
I  had  a  heart  that  soon  forgot 

Such  trivial  things — we  left  the  spot — 
And  she  is  now  my  wife. 


LOST  AND  WON. 

Why  do  the  violets  pale  ? 

Why  droop  the  lilies  fair. 

The  lilies  so  chaste  and  fair  ? 

A  woman  has  scoffed  at  Purity, 

And  her  breath  is  on  the  air  ; 

A  guilty  deed  has  been  done  on  earth, 

And  left  its  shadow  there. 


A  babe  was  born  on  a  summer's  morn, 

When  all  the  world  was  gay, 

When  the  world  was  laughing  and  gay — 
But  the  babe  was  dead  ere  the  evening  fled. 

And  a  soul  had  passed  away ; 
A  soul  had  fluttered  its  wings  on  earth. 

And  then  had  passed  away. 


LOST   AND   WON.  161 

And  the  fiends  in  Hell  rang  a  spirit's  knell, 
For  they  knew  their  work  was  done, 
That  their  horrid  work  was  done  ; 

For  the  mother,  wild,  had  slain  her  child, 
And  a  soul  was  lost  and  won  ; 

A  guilty  soul  was  forever  lost, 
And  a  gentle  soul  was  won. 


«  The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys, 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle — 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze, 

A  funeral  pile."— Syrow. 


Within  my  troubled  breast  there  burns  a  flame, 
Blasting  content  forever  with  its  blaze  ; 

'Tis  the  ambition  to  possess  a  name, 

And  this  "  the  lire  that  on  my  bosom  preys." 


My  heart  which  once  was  light  with  little  joys. 
Has   sadly   been   enstranged   from   them   the 
while ; 

And  since  have  gone  those  soul-delighting  toys, 
'Tis  drear,  and  "  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle." 


Like  those  sepulchrous  flames  from  bogs  that  rise. 
Cheerless,  and  warming  nothing  with   their 
rays, 


TBE  FIRE   THAT   ON   MY   BO^OM   PREYS.         163 

Thus,  thus  my  heart,  although  it  light  mine  eyes, 
Is  cold — "  no  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze." 


Upon  the  altar  where  this  fire  doth  burn, 
I  laid  my  best  affections  with  a  smile ; 

They  were  consumed,  and  did  to  ashes  turn. 
And  what  is  left  ?     Alas  !  "  a  funeral  pile." 


TO   MARY. 


In  forming  thy  beauty,  the  angels,  I  ween, 

Must  surely  have  taken  a  part  ; 
For  heavenly  charms  in  thy  face  can  be  seen, 

Reflecting  the  joys  of  thy  heart. 


And  one  must  have  stolen  the  last  gilded  band, 
From  a  cloud,  which  the  sun  had  left  there  ; 

And  gaily  returning,  the  dyes  in  her  hand. 
Left  the  luminous  hue  in  thy  hair  ; 


And  one  on  thy  cheek.  Love's  signet  did  place. 
And  gave  thee  a  dimple  for  dower ; 

Another  that  smile  that  illumines  thy  face, 
As  a  sunbeam  illumines  a  flower ; 


TO    MARY.  165 

Another  one  gave  those  miraculous  eyes. 

So  suited  for  smiling  or  weeping  ; 
She  was  flitting  one  day  through  the  scintillant 
skies. 

And  stole  them  from  Psyche,  while  sleeping. 


Another  resolved,  as  thy  form  was  so  fair, 

Thy  head  to  adorn  with  her  arts  : 
Wit's  quiver  she  captured  by  means  of  a  snare, 

And  embellished  thy  mind  with  his  darts. 


And  now,  I  am  sure,  if  the  Graces  could  die, 
And  the  search  for  three  others  begun. 

The  seekers,  at  once,  will  declare  in  the  sky, 
Thou  combinest  the  three  into  one. 


FLORENCE  DE  BEVERLIE. 

Florence  de  Beverlie,  we  are  one — 
You  know  it  well,  and  you  dare  not  lie — 
For  when  we  met  we  were  born  again, 
We  were  the  twins  of  destiny. 
The  light  that  dawned  in  your  dark  eyes 
Lit  up  this  hopeful  heart  of  mine, 
And  back  reflected  from  my  soul, 
Revealed  the  inmost  thoughts  of  thine. 

O  you  may  stare,  and  you  may  frown, 
And  curl  your  lips  with  high  disdain — 
But  all  the  hopes  you  kill  in  me. 
Are  quickened  in  your  breast  again  ; 
And  back  returning  with- the  light. 
That  flashes  from  your  scornful  eyes. 
They  ope  the  portals  of  my  heart, 
And  tell  me  of  your  tears  and  sighs. 


FLORENCE   DE   BEVEKLIE.  167 

Though  you  have  stores  of  gems  and  gold, 
And  though  your  lands  be  bright  with  grain, 
Yet  can  your  riches  buy  you  peace, 
Or  turn  to  joy  your  spirit's  pain  ? 
No  wealth  is  mine — what  once  I  had, 
Was  squandered  by  my  guardian's  hand — 
But  I  have  that  I  would  not  give. 
For  all  the  riches  in  the  land^ — 


A  soul  that  envy  has  not  touched — 
A  brain  that  toils  for  fame,  not  gold- 
A  form  that  no  excess  has  bent, 
No  godless  passions  have  controlled. 
My  bronzed  hands  are  free  of  rings, 
Yet  they  can  do  a  noble  part ; 
The  riches  of  the  poor  are  mine — 
AJiealthful  frame,  an  honest  heart. 


Believe  me,  Florence,  Fate  is  strong- 
We  must  be  joined  for  good  or  ill — 
The  pleasures  or  the  pains  we  feel. 
Are  not  the  creatures  of  our  will — ' 


168  FLORENCE   DE   BEVERLIE. 

They  come  as  sunshine  comes,  or  rain- 
'Tis  no  avail  that  we  resist — 
They  form  a  realm  in  which  we  live, 
And  lose  the  outer  world  in  mist. 


Florence  de  Beverlie,  frown  no  more, 
But  give  your  lips  the  smiling  curve — 
Let  loving  light  illumine  your  eyes, 
For  scornful  looks  no  more  will  serve. 
Together  we  will  go  our  ways. 
Unheeding  if  the  world  should  frown — 
When  Love  sits  in  the  scales  of  life, 
He  weighs  the  whole  creation  down. 


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